


The Shooting Party

by 7PercentSolution



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Post-Episode: s01e02 The Blind Banker, Secret Intelligence Service | MI6, West Sussex, country pursuits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-05 06:28:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 27
Words: 67,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5364872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set just months after moving into 221b, a difficult case stymies the Consulting Detective and his blogger. Cue an engraved invitation to spend an autumn weekend in the country, which takes John and Sherlock to West Sussex, for some surprising revelations, deductions and introductions. Mostly John's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this is set early in the relationship between Sherlock and John; as such it pre-dates almost ALL of my other stories!

"Get in." The voice was loud enough to be heard over the pouring rain, and, for once, John decided he didn't mind getting 'kidnapped' by Mycroft. But he was so soaked that he hesitated. "I'm  _very_  wet."

"Just get in. Leather dries."

 _Serves you right then._ John clambered in, putting the two Tesco shopping bags on the floor of the Jag, between his feet. His hair was plastered down over his forehead, and his shoes actually made a squelching sound when he put them down on the carpet of the Jag. He had a wicked thought; if he was a dog, he'd give one good shake and that extortionately expensive three piece suit would be splattered from head to toe. Not for the first time, he wondered where the man got his money from.

"Doctor Watson. Surely you are aware of the British climate's vagaries. Why is it that I have never seen you with an umbrella?" The man who uttered this was clutching the handle of his own immaculately furled umbrella.

John smirked. "Well, as it seems these days I have my hands full carrying not just groceries for one, but for two, so where's the third hand to hold an umbrella going to come from? You don't expect your brother to come out and do something so useful as to keep us both dry, do you?"

That made an eyebrow rise on Mycroft's face. "Unlikely. The only other person I know less prone to using an umbrella than you is my brother. In his case, it's because he can't be bothered with remembering to take one. And, like you, he almost …relishes being unprotected against the elements."

John thought about it and realised it was true- he'd never seen Sherlock carry or use an umbrella.  _Odd._  But then that was Sherlock. After four months of sharing a flat with the man, he was getting used to his eccentricities- including the occasional interference of a mysterious big brother.

"So, what can I do for you, Mycroft?" He tried to keep the weariness out of his voice. He'd had a very long session at the clinic, trying to make up to Sarah for the disaster that had been their first date. Not many women he had dated managed to get tied to a chair, threatened with a particularly brutal form of execution and then rescued by Sherlock, who was not quite but almost too late. She had forgiven him in a way, but he was still working up the nerve to ask her out again. While the cheque from Sebastian Wilkes' bank had helped defray expenses, he still wanted to keep his hand in medically speaking, so was taking extra shifts at the practice.

"Always suspicious of an ulterior motive, John? Being around my brother seems to be having a negative influence on your…trust issues."

"Only when it comes to you. You are entirely too busy being a minor official of the British Government, as you put it, to be bothered with giving me a lift out of the kindness of your heart, so I am going to assume this serves another purpose. Just spit it out, will you? I'm too wet and tired to care about polite conversation."

"Very well. This is what I believe to be called a "heads up." Later this week, you will be receiving an invitation to spend a weekend in the country. I should be very grateful if you would look favourably upon it and accept. It's for the second weekend in November, from Friday afternoon through to Sunday."

Suspicion flared in John's mind.  _Why would Mycroft want me to spend a weekend away from Baker Street?_ "So, what do you intend to get up to while I am away? Is this some sort of, I don't know…plot to get Sherlock to do something for you that he wouldn't do if I was around?"

Mycroft smirked. "You really  _do_  have trust issues, don't you?" When John did not reply, the elder Holmes gave a slight shrug. "Sherlock will be getting an invitation, too. In fact, it is more important that he attends than you, but I know that he will use you as an excuse to decline it this year, so you are also invited."

The doctor digested that. "What's involved? Where? And why wouldn't he want to go?"

"Ever handled a shotgun?"

John was thrown by the non sequitur. "Once; when I was thirteen and a friend of my cousin took us both out to a farm to shoot rabbits that were destroying their vegetable garden. I seem to remember that I wasn't very good at it. It did get me interested in guns, though- and you know where that led to. Why do you ask?"

"Because the invitation is to a shooting party. In West Sussex. To be precise about the location, on a driven game shooting estate- pheasant and partridge mostly, although wild duck might be involved, too, on the Sunday morning. Sherlock used to do this sort of event on a regular basis, at least once a year even after he moved to London."

 _Oh, I've always been curious about that kind of shotgun._ "A proper posh shoot at a big country house, the sort that happens in films and all?"

Mycroft looked at him and smiled. "Yes. I expect so."

John thought about it. This sort of event was way out of his comfort zone. Coming from a lower middle class background and raised in the industrial city of Corby, known for its steel and iron works, John had no experience with the landed gentry. Sherlock's public school accent suggested a very different trajectory, but he'd deflected every one of John's "getting to know you" type of questions very early on in their flatshare (" _Tediously boring, and totally irrelevant, John. The past is dead and buried, along with my parents and their ancestors.")_

"So, why are you so interested in him going?" He was being nosey, but it was worth asking.

"Because I am, too, and it would be advantageous for him to attend. So, an invitation was arranged for you as well. There's no great 'plot', doctor. It's a relatively enjoyable activity; think of it as a bit of a break from London life."

"I don't have any of the proper kit."

"That can be arranged. Most of the other guests will be in a similar position, I am sure." He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a business card. "Take this- it's my outfitter. Just go and let him sort you out. He knows exactly what is needed, and does this regularly for people who've never been. You can trust him. And it's on my account."

John looked at the address- St James' Street. "You must  _really_  want him to attend."

"I do. He used to enjoy it very much. With you there, I think he will again."

John was thinking that through when he realised that the car had stopped. Through the rain spattered window beside him, he recognised Baker Street. Then the door was opened by the chauffeur who stood with an umbrella.

"I'll give it some thought, Mycroft. No promises, though; you over-estimate my influence over Sherlock, especially if Lestrade rings with a case."

Author's Note: My brilliant co-authoress is a media maven. And she's produced a moodboard for this story. All will be revealed! 


	2. Chapter 2

Four days later, John was sitting in his chair, going through the morning's post. He felt less anxious now about the final notice bills than he had in the past. He'd been living with Sherlock long enough to know that these would be paid through direct debits from his flatmate's account at some point. Sherlock didn't think about such mundane stuff, but clearly someone did. John suspected either Mycroft or perhaps a family adviser of some sort. He just went along with the arrangements now, and paid his share of the rent directly to Mrs Hudson, and kept a running balance of grocery shopping bills and taxi fares to offset his share of the utilities bills and rates for the flat. It had worked out pretty evenly over the past nine months, so he'd stopped worrying. He remembered the first time he'd raised it, at the end of the first month in Baker Street.

"What do you want to do with this, Sherlock?"

"Do with what?" The younger man was stretched out on the sofa in what John had come to think of as his characteristic 'possum pose'. Sherlock didn't open his eyes to look at the gas bill that was being waved at him by John.

"Bills. How do you want to settle up what we owe each other at the end of every month?"

"Boring. Just decide what I owe you and you can take my card to the nearest cash machine and take it." Sherlock didn't open his eyes, but just waved his hand dismissively before returning it to his usual 'prayer' position.

"Pretty trusting soul, aren't you? What happens if I end up owing you instead of the other way around. Or if I get greedy?"

"I know you scrupulously honest, John. I watch you balancing your bank account every time you write a cheque. You've been managing money meticulously all of your life. Someone that careful isn't a likely thief."

John decided that was as close to a backhanded compliment he was likely to get, so let it go.

As soon as he got to the fourth item down in the pile of today's post, he found the two envelopes, one addressed to him, the other Sherlock, in the same handwriting. Impressive, posh stationery. Sherlock was taking a shower at the time, so John decided to open his. He got Sherlock's jack-knife off the mantelpiece, remembering Mrs Hudson's reaction when she'd seen it there the first time ( _"Oh, my poor mantel; whatever possessed him to do that?") _It was handy letter opener, and John felt that something this posh deserved to be opened carefully _._ He sliced through the top of the envelope very carefully and pulled out a gilt-edged stiff card

_Syndicate B of the Parham Estate_

_invites_

_Captain John Watson MD MC_

_To a shooting weekend on 13-15 November_

_RSVP 01903 742021_

His name had been written in black ink on the line, in perfect calligraphy, as if engraved itself to match the font of the printing. There was a small coronet embossed on the card at the top. Very tasteful, and it just screamed old money. There was no address, but he vaguely remembered Mycroft saying West Sussex. That made John wonder. He was from the middle of the country- the east Midlands to be precise. And when he escaped that to go to university in London, he didn't have much of a chance to travel in the UK. Apart from the area around Sandhurst in Camberley, Surrey, some thirty miles west of London, he didn't know much about southern England, outside of London. His army days after were spent in the far northeast, Northumberland, and then it was off to Sierra Leone, Germany and then his tours of duty in Afghanistan.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was even harder to place geographically. The accent created by a public school tended to erase any regional dialect. John had been at Sandhurst with soldiers from Scotland who had accents shaped more by their time at a posh southern school than any ancestral roots in Aberdeenshire or the Highlands. He had no idea where the Holmes brothers had grown up, apart from Mycroft's comment about Sherlock  _moving_  to London, so presumably he wasn't born in the city. Come to think of it, he'd never even managed to find out where Sherlock went to school. It just never came up at a crime scene, or standing across the mortuary table when examining another murder victim.

As he looked at the invitation again and re-played his backseat conversation with Mycroft, he realised that this was an opportunity to find out more about Sherlock and his brother, in a rather more social environment. The idea of the three of them being invited to some posh event was…intriguing. John was always game to try something new, and his Sandhurst days had knocked off most of the rough edges of insecurity about his own social background, so he wasn't fazed by spending a weekend seeing how the other half lived. Might be enlightening about a flatmate who persisted in denying the past meant anything.

"What's that?" The baritone over his shoulder roused John from his thoughts. Sherlock had come through the kitchen and was snooping over his shoulder.

"You've got one, too." He handed the envelope over his shoulder to his flatmate.

"Oh,  _that."_  Sherlock casually ripped the envelope open and pulled the card out, heading back toward the kitchen where he binned both without reading it.

"Oi! Aren't you going to even look at it?" John was surprised.

"I know what it says."

"Does that mean you aren't going to accept?"

There was something akin to disappointment in John's tone that made Sherlock look back at him, in surprise. He came and sat in his leather and chrome chair, eyeing the doctor with some surprise.

"You want to…go?" He didn't keep his disbelief hidden. "Why would you want to do that?"

John gave him a rather pointed look. "Maybe because I fancy a trip out of London and spending a weekend in the fresh country air at someone else's expense- well, what's  _not_  to like about that? Never been to a shooting party before. Sounds like fun. Why don't  _you_  want to go?"

"Mycroft."

"Well, there will be  _other_  people there, too, Sherlock. You can just ignore him there as much as you do here."

"It's not just him; one of these weekends can be full of hooray henrys and stuck up aristos, John. Not exactly a barrel of laughs."

"Who says I want a barrel of laughs? Can't say that every night stuck at home watching crap TV and eating take-away couldn't be improved by getting something different occasionally."

"Isn't that what your dating is all about?"

"Yeah, well, that takes hard work, finding someone to go out with. It might be interesting to be put together with a load of people I don't know. Not everyone is a self-confessed sociopath, Sherlock." John said it with a smile, hoping his flatmate wouldn't take offence. "Besides, you know what I think about guns, and actually having a chance to learn a weapon I've never really used before is…exciting."

Sherlock seemed to consider this. "The shooting itself is…good. It's just that it comes with a whole load of tedious stuff- like the formal dinner on Saturday. Black tie and all that stupidity."

"Will there be women?" John's mind had gone off on a tangent when Sherlock mentioned his dating.

"Yes, possibly one or two who actually shoot, but women are more common as the camp followers."

John shot him a confused look.

"Beaters, pickers-up, of course, plus the ones that come for the social stuff- wives, girlfriends, guests. That sort of women."

"Pretty?"

"I have no idea. I'm not in charge of the guest list, am I?" Sherlock was starting to look bemused. "Do you even possess a dinner jacket, John?"

"Nope, but a Mess uniform will do, won't it?"

Sherlock nodded. "Actually, it's likely that some other retired military chap will also get invited, so you won't be the only one; they generally love an invitation, and can be quite good shots."

"Well, I won't be, so don't expect me to do anything more than try it out."

Sherlock was smirking. "Don't worry. I am sure they won't put you in the firing line. If you'd like to be in the thick of it without the responsibility of actually hitting anything, I could show you how to be a loader for me. It's more interesting than just hanging about. Quite challenging, in fact. But, away from the drives, I'm sure there will be time to teach you the basics of shooting and give you a chance to add another weapon to your list of armament skills, John."

"Then you'll accept?"

"Well, if it matters so much to you, who am I to say no? Of course, if Lestrade calls with a juicy case, I will change my mind, but don't let that stop you."

And John decided right then and there to have a quiet word with one particular detective inspector, with the firm intention that making sure no such call ever got made.


	3. Chapter 3

Unfortunately, John didn't get to make that call before he and Sherlock were swept up in a case that he came to call 'The Kentish Town Knife Wars'- a title that he put on his blog, which coincidentally then appeared in one of the tabloids. It started when two prostitutes ended up murdered on the same night. Lestrade called Sherlock in, "because there is something you need to see on the bodies- we're just a little baffled."

John accompanied Sherlock to the Bart's Mortuary, where Molly Hooper was waiting with the DI and Sergeant Donovan.

Sherlock swept in through the double doors, his coat swirling behind him, with the doctor following close on his heels. Within seconds, John realised they were interrupting an argument between Lestrade and Donovan.

"We don't need  _him_  to get involved. This is open and shut- someone doesn't like prozzies and has had a go. They're clearly linked; the knife wounds are the same." Sally turned to Molly. "Tell him, Miss Hooper; it's the same cause of death, by the same weapon."

Before the Pathologist could respond, Lestrade interrupted. "Yeah, but you're kind of missing the  _point_ , Donovan. Firstly, I'm not convinced they are prostitutes. Second, the knife wounds are really weird. And the bodies were found a good distance from each other, but at almost the exact same time. To be sure it was the same killer, we'd need distinctly different times of death, because unless you know something about physics that I don't, it's not possible to be in two places at one and the same time. The only other possibility is same killer, same time, but two different places to dump the bodies? Why would anyone take that much additional risk? It's more likely that they were killed by two different people, and the weapon is just a coincidence. Just because the wounds look similar, that doesn't mean they were done by the same hand. Tell her that, Molly."

"Um…it's really hard to say, Detective Inspector. And, um, Sergeant …it's not, ah…so simple- it could be different knives, used by two different people at different times. But the knife may not matter. I need time to determine cause of death….because…you see…the wounds might not be fatal; there might be another cause of death entirely." The Pathologist was looking stressed, caught as she was between the two police officers, each of whom wanted her to back their side of the argument.

John was trying to figure out how to intervene to calm things down, when Sherlock just waded in. Striding up to the two police officers, he said "Badgering Miss Hooper before she's done a proper autopsy is not going to solve anything. You are probably both wrong, and both being idiots for arguing over it when you haven't really got a clue. Let me have a look." He pushed between them to the metal tables and the bodies lying on them, pulling out his pocket magnifier. "You've taken their finger prints." It was a statement; not a question. "And come up with no match."

Donovan nodded. "They aren't in the system, probably because they haven't been on the game long enough to be arrested yet. The witness- the  _prostitute_..." and here she looked pointedly at the DI "…who recognised the blonde said she'd only seen her recently, in the last ten days or so."

John looked down at the two women's bodies, and was puzzled. "Sergeant Donovan, why are you certain that they were prostitutes?"

She rolled her eyes. "We've got their clothing and effects already in evidence bags and being tested by Don Anderson. Mutiply that by the fact that the vaginal smear test done by Miss Hooper at my request before you arrived tested positive for semen in both women. Add to that where they were found- in areas known to kerb crawlers. Plus the fact that the witness who identified the blonde's body was another prostitute. She said she'd seen them both together kerbside in Kentish Town, so it's a pretty safe conclusion. Doesn't need a Sherlock Holmes to deduce the obvious."

Sherlock finished looking at the inside of the left elbow of the blonde woman and then looked at her feet, focusing in particular on the space between the big toe and the next toe. Then he picked up her left hand. Then he looked briefly at her right hand, before spinning around to do the exactly the same to the dark haired woman on the other table. John realised both were quite young.

"How old do you think they are, John?"

The doctor scanned the bodies. "The blonde is probably a little older then the brunette, but neither is likely to be over eighteen."

Sherlock gave a little shake of his head. "No. Under-aged is my guess, sixteen or so; and you are wrong, Sally, to say that they are regulars on the game. Look at their nails."

Lestrade frowned and looked more closely. "What about them?"

"Too long. A professional streetwalker keeps them well groomed but short. She doesn't want to inflict any  _damage_  when using her hands to satisfy customers." The consulting detective put his right hand under the neck of the blonde, and tipped her head back, using his left hand to open the young woman's mouth.

"Lestrade, you may be more correct than your Sergeant, but not for the reasons you suggested."

"So, enlighten me, will you? I haven't got all night." The DI was irritated by the argument he'd been having with his sergeant; it wasn't good for team dynamics.

"Look at her teeth. It's obvious. That and her nails, don't you see?" Sherlock looked at the other four of them.

John was just as confused as the two police officers. Only Molly Hooper was nodding. Sherlock saw that and smirked.

"Tell them. You examine enough bodies to actually  _observe_  the significant differences."

When she felt their eyes on her, Molly blushed a little. "Well, it's all consistent with the breast augmentations- they're very good work, by the way, so I'm not surprised you didn't notice. The teeth have been professionally capped. The women were in good physical shape, skins very soft, been cared for by someone who is able to spend money on posh products." The stammer disappeared when she was dealing with the bodies.

Sherlock was looking closely at the hair of the brunette woman. He added to Molly's list, "These are hair extensions- top quality, very carefully matched. If these young girls were prostitutes, Sergeant Donovan, then they are not the common kerb crawler's fare; no- think of high class call girls, escorts. Both of these women could be models. Just look at them. Someone has made a very significant investment to bring both of them into the highest echelons of the sex trade."

And John did- seeing them now in a different light, as if they were not dead bodies on a slab, but rather as the attractive young women that they would have looked like before they'd been killed.  _How does he DO that? Be able to see what they would have been before they ended up here_. It was one of the things that amazed him about Sherlock. His capacity to re-wind, to set aside evidence so he could deduce what no one else noticed, because they were too wrapped up in what was in front of their eyes.

"In fact, when you analyse the semen samples, I think you will find only one donor- and it's likely to be the same one- and the DNA won't be in the system either. This was done by a man who was not afraid of getting caught. Add to that, the fact that before tonight, both of these young women were almost certainly virgins- which is why he would risk unprotected sex. You'll be able to verify that in the autopsy, Molly. Help me turn them over, John."

Once the blonde had been flipped over, the wound in her back became evident.

"That's unusual." John could hardly keep his surprise in check. "Wow- that must be one hell of a sharp knife." There was an entry wound right in the middle of the back- seemingly into the spine itself.

"My thoughts exactly," said Lestrade.

Donovan huffed. "It's still a knife wound. That is obvious. And the other body has exactly the same wound in the same spot."

Sherlock raised his eyes from the pocket magnifier which he had been using to examine the wound closely. In a tone of voice that said he knew it himself, but wanted the others to know, Sherlock then said "Tell them the significance of that location, Miss Hooper."

The Pathologist kept her eyes on Sherlock. "It's in between the first and second lumbar vertebrae." She palpated the woman's spinal bones below the wound. "You're right about her age. I can't be certain without a full autopsy, but the sacrum bones don't feel fused completely, so she's younger than she looks." When she was dealing with the medical terminology, Molly was less self-conscious and more fluent. "The blade was quite narrow in width. I've measured the depth- it's 381 millimetres. That's 15 inches, Detective Inspector, so if it is a knife, it's a long one."

"So, a stiletto or a bayonet…" Sherlock bent over the table, examining the wound again. "Italian stilettos can be eleven inches, but thirteen is more common. The actual wound suggests a thicker blade than the standard stiletto. So, probably a bayonet."

John found himself wondering how Sherlock could know this, when Lestrade voiced his own scepticism. "That's one I would expect a military man like John might know, but just how the hell do  _you_  know what a bayonet wound looks like?"

That earned him a glare. "I  _like_  bladed weapons, Detective Inspector. I was a fencer at school and university, where I frequented the medical school cadaver rooms, as well. So, I experimented a bit. There's a paper about blade wounds on my website."

Lestrade cracked an incredulous smile. "You must have been a bundle of fun at university, Sherlock."

John watched as Sherlock just shrugged his shoulders. "What can I say? I have unusual hobbies."

Sherlock looked up at Donovan as he asked his next question of Molly. "The force needed to penetrate just there would be substantial, wouldn't it, and  _very_  precisely placed?"

"Yes- a fraction off and the blade would hit spinal column bone, and then be stopped. This wound cut at just the correct angle to go through the disc's annulus fibrosus then the nucleus polposus to the spinal cord. The adult spinal cord ends just above this, so the blade would sever the lumbar, sacral and coccygeal nerves, descending to their exits beyond the end of the cord."

"Which would have paralysed her legs completely." Sherlock was smiling that smile of his which said he'd just figured something out.

"Yes."

"The work of someone who knew their anatomy then. Hardly a 'crime of passion'."

"Well, I guess so. I don't know much about motivations; I'm…um…just a Pathologist."

"And would such a wound be fatal, John?"

"Not necessarily. In fact, probably not. Paralysing, yes; but the blood and spinal fluid loss wouldn't kill you. At this angle, the cut missed the aorta, which is to the left and back of the spinal column."

Sherlock rolled his eyes a bit at that. "Well, I think we can rule out the aorta as the target- there are a lot easier places to stab if you were looking for a major arterial bleed to be the cause of death. Lestrade, when the toxicology report comes back, I think you'll find that they were given a lethal injection first- check the drug; most likely to be a fatal dose of heroin. It was injected in the space between their toes. But you'll also find traces of something that would make them compliant, too- GHB or Rophynol, probably mixed in with a carbonated drink."

Sherlock stepped away from the dissection tables. "Donovan, you're wrong- they aren't street prostitutes. They are sacrificial lambs- virgins brought in and auctioned to the highest bidder- probably a Middle Eastern client with lots of money who wants an untouched girl. Lestrade, you're also wrong- this is one man's work; the chance of having two killers so precise in their work is highly remote. When it comes to the weapon, you should be looking for a bayonet knife- probably Eastern European in origin and quite the antique. Modern rifle bayonets are short and much wider. These wounds are a message, not a method of killing- and it's telling us all that there is a turf war going on between rival human trafficker gangs."

And with that, Sherlock turned away from the bodies and strode out of the mortuary, leaving a slightly stunned quartet behind. John cast an apologetic look at Lestrade and Molly, and then rushed out behind his flatmate. Not for the first time, John wondered how Sherlock knew so much about this sort of business. For a man who confessed that women were "not his area", the consulting detective certainly knew the seamier side of the sex trade.


	4. Chapter 4

It was when the next pair of bodies turned up three nights later that John began to realise that Sherlock's original assessment was prophetic. These two  _were_  street prostitutes; one had been actually busy with a client when the car door had been wrenched open by a pair of masked men. The man had been dragged out of the back seat, his trousers removed and then told to run, "if you know what's good for you." This was according to the eye witness, a prostitute with her own client, but this time out of a car, further along the dark alley. She'd put her hand over her man's mouth to stop him from freaking out when they both heard the murder victims' screams as they were dragged into another car and driven away. The result was two particularly gruesome bodies recovered from the car about 2 miles away, according to Lestrade.

When John and Sherlock confronted the corpses in the mortuary, the doctor could only agree. The two women had been virtually decapitated, their necks almost severed from behind by something much bigger than a knife.

John took a deep breath and examined the wound. "Not a knife- too much crush damage."

"Could it be a sword…you know, like an execution?" Lestrade was starting to buy Sherlock's assessment of a gang war.

Sherlock was in his element, examining the wound close up, using his pocket magnifier, totally oblivious to the carnage on the table that had once been a woman. He stood up and looked…bemused, much to John's horror. "And there I was, always thinking the phrase 'axe murderer' to be a cliché."

John exchanged a shocked look with Lestrade, whose disbelief was obvious. "An  _axe_?"

"Hmm? Oh, not the sort in the horror movies, Lestrade! No, this one was what they call a horseman's axe. Popular in Eastern and Central Europe in the renaissance period, it has a curved blade- a bit like a half moon- probably about three inches long. Attached to a wooden handle, usually about fifteen inches long. Quite handy if you're on horseback and want to wreak havoc on foot soldiers, also useful in hand-to-hand combat where swinging a sword or rapier would be difficult in a crowd. This amount of damage would be possible with as few as two or three blows. But they would most likely be unconscious at the time."

"Well, thank God for small mercies."

Sherlock snorted. "They're still  _dead_ , Lestrade. And the locations they were left in leaves it abundantly clear- this is the other gang's response to the earlier murder of the two women." Sherlock was thinking, and he started to pace under the mortuary's harsh florescent lights. And after about four turns, he stopped. "John, we need more data. You and I need to do some field research."

In the next week, John learned more about kerb crawling and street walking than he had ever believed possible, as well as where to go in north and east London if you were after the illegal sex trade. On one of the longer waits, watching the passing cars driving very slowly by a particular street near an estate, John asked Sherlock to explain how organised crime managed this seemingly chaotic business.

"The problem is procurement, John. While there are always home-grown runaways or homeless girls, drug addicts and the like, they don't tend to be as compliant as the foreign imports. The trafficking gangs recruit in Eastern and Central Europe or the Caucus Russian states, looking for gullible young girls. They're promised attractive jobs in London- modelling, hotel work, club dancers, the like. Naïve, they end up press ganged, their passports confiscated, told that if they want to live, they have to work the streets for sex. Once inside the UK, they are auctioned off to pimps, brothels, and anyone else with enough money. It's the modern slave trade, and just as horrible as its predecessor. Too many of the girls are forced into drug addiction to keep them quiet and dependent. It's a sad story, John."

"Where did you…um, learn about all this stuff, Sherlock?"

"The Homeless Network is full of people who are escapees. Some are still on the game themselves, to fund a drug habit; others seek comfort or cash where they can find it."

Not all of it was on the street. Sherlock took John to visit suburban houses, and 'clubs', shop fronts advertising models, and the inevitable massage parlours, to talk with the girls. John was asked to play a part that he wasn't keen on playing.

"I'm too well known in this world, John. You, on the other hand, look the part and can ask the questions once you've got the girls away from their pimps. As long as they get paid, they will be discrete. If any of them get bolshie, just tell them you are on an undercover police operation and they'll leave you be."

The picture that was building up was not pleasant. Each night street girls would congregate at the usual venues, some brought in by vans from where they would be held under lock and key during the day. Rival trafficker gangs tried to hold onto various locations, fought pitched battles over a lucrative customer base. The girls were all too often caught up in the battles, foot soldiers in the campaigns. The level of violence between the girls escalated, under pressure from their bosses. John checked out the Whittington Hospital up in Archway, for details about admissions, and also spoke to the Cavendish health practice in Kentish Town to see what cases they were picking up. Both reported assault injuries up amongst young women, none of which wanted to report anything to the police.

The problem was that there were lots of layers of middle men, and it was hard to get even the slightest glimpse of the bosses who actually ran the business. "They're the only ones worth going after, John; the others are just cannon fodder. We could catch the men who beat up the girls, even the murderers, and still be no closer to the people who are pulling all the strings."

Contrary to those who thought Sherlock only worked on cases that could be solved very quickly, he did take on some, like this one, that needed a steady build-up of intelligence information. And John watched as his flatmate got more and more obsessed with the faceless men at the top of the trade in women. John was getting exhausted keeping up with Sherlock's relentless pace as he tried to chase down every lead, every contact to find just the one piece of data that would break the case. When they weren't on the move, Sherlock just paced in the flat. Even when John forced him to sit down and try to relax, he could see that brain was not stopping. "Sherlock, you really need to rest. Collapsing from exhaustion is not going to solve the case."

John's phone rang. He dug it out of his pocket, while keeping his hand on Sherlock's shoulder to stop him from getting up out of the chair to resume pacing.

"Sit still. Let me get this."

Sherlock huffed.

"Yes, Lestrade. We're taking a break at Baker Street. What's up?" The pause lengthened.

"Ok. I'll tell him. Thanks; all the reinforcements can't hurt. Bye."

"What?!" The younger man's mood was not improving.

"The Met have put extra men on tonight's patrols, in the hope of deterring any further retaliation."

His flatmate just sighed. "It won't do any good, John. It will just mean the next casualties will be less obvious." Then he wriggled out of John's grip on his shoulder, heaved himself out of the chair and resumed pacing. "The problem is that the more we trawl the streets, the more little fish we learn about. But, it isn't giving us the breakthrough we need- we're after the bigger fish, not the minnows, John. I had hoped that our sniffing around might have provoked one side or the other to come out of the shadows."

Three hours later, John gave up trying to confine Sherlock to barracks, and they headed out again, walking north and east for twenty minutes until they were once again in the back streets of Kentish Town. After a couple of hours of conversations with various working girls, John pushed Sherlock into a café. "I'm freezing; if I don't get a coffee, I'm going to get hypothermia." Within minutes, they were both holding big mugs of disgustingly over-brewed black coffee; more for the heat on their fingers than for the taste.

In a desperate need to think about something other than the horror that was illegal sex trade, John found himself wondering about the upcoming shooting weekend. John was a bit uneasy about whether he should accept Mycroft's offer of kitting him out at his expense. Given that John had managed to get Sherlock, against his initial reaction, to go along with the idea of attending the weekend in West Sussex, he wasn't feeling  _too_  guilty. After all, Mycroft could certainly afford it, if appearances were anything to go by. And he did know, based on his experience at Sandhurst, that the upper classes could be terribly snobbish about clothing. It was one of those things that set them apart from 'real' people, that is, the rest of the working population. If he was going to enjoy this occasion, then he would need to look the part, but he was a little hesitant about accepting Mycroft's insistence on paying.

"Sherlock."

"Hmm?" His flatmate was working on his phone, huddled in his Belstaff with the collar turned up and his scarf, despite the steamy heat of the diner. The proprietor knew that warmth would draw custom as much as his rather abysmal food, but John knew that Sherlock felt the cold more than he did, and would take longer to thaw out.

"About the shooting weekend in November."

"What about it?" Sherlock didn't look up, and his response showed his brain was rather preoccupied.

"Mycroft has volunteered me the services of his 'outfitter', as he called him- and wants to pay for it. Does that constitute a bribe?"

That question made him look up with a smirk. "Don't you remember what I said the first night you moved into Baker Street? It was a pity you didn't ask me before you turned down Mycroft's offer of money to spy on me. We could have split the money and I would have enjoyed feeding him misinformation. So, by all means, take the fat git to the cleaners. He can afford it- and he's got what he wanted, which is me to say yes."

Another thought must have crossed Sherlock's mind, because he put his phone down on the dinner table and looked frustrated and cross. "Of course, that assumes we can wrap this wretched case up in time. On second thought,  _do_  make sure you get some clothing sorted early, just in case we don't manage to make the date. You could do with a warmer coat than the one you've been wearing recently."

oOo

Three days later, a well-dressed man walked in the autumn twilight down the pavement from the Savoy Hotel, past the serried ranks of taxis. He turned left onto the Strand and walked to the next turning left onto Adam Street. As he came around the corner, he saw the waiting black cab, with its light off. He checked the registration and it matched the one he had been given, so he opened the passenger door and got in.

The sliding glass partition opened. "Where to, Guv?" The question came in perfect cockney.

"I thought you would know that. I was told to take this taxi to speak with…someone important. If you don't know what I'm talking about, then something's gone wrong, because this taxi has the right number plate- just a stupid driver." He did not try to hide his annoyance. He could not disguise his Eastern European accent.

"No need to get your knickers in a twist, Mister." The man, who was not a licensed taxi driver, the man who had learned the cockney accent to cover his own, more noticeable accent, moved the rear view mirror so the passenger could see him, and vice versa. "The person you want to see is too busy to make it in person. But..." he turned now to look over the back seat at the passenger, "he left me to be his translator." The taxi driver gestured to his earpiece. "He talks to me, and tells me what to say to you; he can hear everything you say- this taxi is wired for sound." The cabbie put the taxi in gear and drove south, down to John Adam Street. From there, he'd get onto the Embankment and drive towards Westminster.

As soon as the taxi turned onto the next street, the cab driver began. "Well, now. The man wants to know what you want from him. You've made the right contacts, and seem to be in a bit of need. What exactly, is your problem?"

The Eastern European made a face. "Really, this is …ridiculous- speaking of such things to a … driver. You are nobody. I am important man, and want to speak directly to your boss."

"Well, that's just not going to happen, is it? So, speak into the microphone, as they say. My boss likes his privacy, and that means keeping himself away from the dirty end of the business. That's you, by the way."

The Romanian looked out at the London traffic going by. The silence lengthened. Then a sigh. "Very well, I have territorial dispute with neighbour. They want to muscle in on some very important transactions with my clients south of the border in the United States. But, like most wars of this century, our dispute is being fought by proxy war. So, instead of attracting the authorities' attention to the real battle, we fight it out over a little side-show here in the UK. No, worse- a sideshow to a sideshow. Moving people in and out of the UK is easy money; selling a few to fuel the demand for sex workers is a just small part of it. We have a 'no man's land' in Kentish Town, where he is supposed to respect my battle lines. Only he isn't. So, I send him a message. He retaliates. Then back and forth it goes. If we could do it properly, we'd be done in a week. I would be able to inflict enough damage to convince him to yield."

The cab driver interrupted. "The Guv wants to know, if it's a sideshow worth very little, then why not just let it go, rather than risk the big money from guns and drugs?"

The Romanian snarled. "It's principle. If we can't shut these wretched Bulgarians up, then we look weak. My competition has decided to target that little business area to make a stand. Who wins this little battle will impress the real money overseas."

There was another silence. Then the cabbie gave a reply-"So, what's the problem. You surely don't lack the firepower to make the Bulgarians back off?"

"It's police. This crazy little country and its gun laws make life difficult. The London Police won't leave us alone. They don't take bribes. I thought first they were stupid, not able to figure it out, but they know now that this is just the proxy war for something bigger."

The taxi driver put his finger to the earpiece. "My Guvnor says the police are usually too preoccupied with keeping burglary statistics down to figure anything much out about other crime that doesn't interest the voters. What's different this time?"

"They've brought someone else into the picture. He's asking questions.  _Good_  questions, and of the right people. Not a stupid cop. He and his man, they are  _intruding_. Making the clients upset; the girls are getting restless."

The cab drew up to a long line of traffic at the red light on Embankment. "He asks whether you've got a name- this bloke and his man."

"Is strange name- Holmes, Sherlock Holmes and a doctor, John Watson. Not police. The medic asks questions at the hospital; he gets answers police don't get. The two of them are on the streets most nights, talking to the girls. The tall one is the smart one. He asks the best questions. The club owners, pimps, agencies- they are getting anxious because of all these questions. He is first one to ask both my people  _and_  my enemy's people. He  _knows_  this is a little fight instead of the real fight. We don't need interference. If they stay away, the war ends more quickly. I could win this, if I could arrange a battle. Just one would be enough to send that Bulgarian back home, with his tail between his legs."

The passenger in the back stirred, as if uncomfortable with having to admit the need for help. "So, I ask your boss- what does he suggest? My local head man says just send in some muscle and beat up Holmes. But his questions are too smart; I think that won't work. But, if I organise to remove this Holmes, it will not be quiet thing. People don't care when prostitute or pimp gets killed. 'Gang warfare' gets blame; civilians ignore it and sleep at night. To kill a cop or someone working for them, though, this would raise yet more questions. So, can you remove this obstacle for me, so there is no problem?"

There was a pause, then, "My Guv says we aim to please. Leave it with him; he'll get back to you tomorrow morning with a game plan. Of course, that depends on whether the sum required is deposited in that numbered account he gave you; that has to happen tonight."

The taxi dropped its passenger at the top of Northumberland Avenue, where it met Whitehall. But the driver did not switch on the yellow roof top light to show he was available for hire again. As soon as the cab joined the one way system around Trafalgar Square, the driver slipped the fake earpiece away from his head and slipped in a Bluetooth hands-free device.

Three rings, then it was picked up, but no greeting offered.

"How'd you get on, Seb?"

As Jim Moriarty manoeuvred the taxi down Pall Mall, past the row of Georgian terraced establishments and the gentlemen's clubs, the disembodied voice of Sebastian Moran filled his cab.

"The Bulgarians want our help, boss- asked us to remove a particular obstacle that's stopping them from having a right go at the opposition. The contact here in London thinks that if he can win this little sex war, that it will impress people across the Atlantic, let them have a chance on bidding for some of the business currently cornered by the Romanians. But the guy is pissed off, because seems that the Met has hired in some sort of consultant adviser who's been sniffing a little too close for comfort, getting a hold of the big picture instead of focusing on the women."

Jim sniggered. "Same story from my Romanian. Right- back to base, my little sniper. I'll get the Romanians to put a shot across Holmes' bows, scare the police into taking him off the case. Then, we'll let the Met find a tethered goat. If they get their killer, then they will shut up and let the two sides fight it out quietly without any more bloodshed. We can play both sides of this game, and then set up both clients for the showdown that they so desperately want over in Mexico." He leaned on his horn as a pair of pedestrians stepped of the pavement right in front of him, looking the wrong way. "Bloody Americans- enough to drive you mad, they are."


	5. Chapter 5

The demands of the case kept John otherwise occupied, and his conversation with Sherlock about the Shooting Weekend retreated to a back burner. Another pair of bodies and then two arson attacks that left dozens of casualties and another woman dead meant that the most everything else slipped down his mental agenda; sleep, food and a chance to warm up became more important when they weren't working. On the 4th of November, whilst fixing a bowl of steaming porridge for breakfast after yet another all-nighter, John took a call from an unknown number.

"Williams Evans Limited, here: am I speaking to Captain Watson?"

The chap was ever so polite, asking the doctor when it would be convenient to stop by the shop so he could be "set up with what's needed for the weekend of the 13th of November, sir. We're on St James' Street and we're open on Thursday evenings until 7pm if your current work commitments make an earlier appointment difficult." John knew his daytime schedule wasn't the problem- he could manage a morning appointment today, because it would take ages before he'd be able to pry Sherlock away from the painstaking testing he was doing at Barts' mortuary on the most recent body, the victim of the arson attack. The consulting detective was trying to isolate the accelerant used to start the fire; the body had been very close to the point of ignition, according to the firemen.

When John crossed St James' Street to Number 67, he realised that this was one of the 'old school' shops- the windows were discrete, and the displays were tastefully masculine. What a contrast with the seedy shop fronts he'd been visiting over the past three weeks' worth of night investigations. He noticed the 'Established in 1883' carved into the lintel above the doorway, and tried not to smile. He was greeted by a well- dressed young man.

"Good morning, sir. How can I help?"

"I'm John Watson, and I have an appointment at 10.15."

The man's eyes lit up. "Oh yes, of course. Mister Reginald is upstairs waiting for you." He pointed toward mahogany stairs, and John noticed the discrete sign, "Bespoke Services" as he climbed.

"Good morning, sir. You must be Captain Watson. I'm Reginald, and I've been asked to make sure you have everything you need for the weekend, sir." The middle aged man welcomed him and led him to a private room. He gestured to the leather wing backed chair, "Please, make yourself comfortable." As John took a seat, Reginald continued, "Before we get started, can I ask the young man downstairs to bring you a coffee, sir?"

John decided that if this is how the other half bought their clothes, then there was something to be said for it. "Yes, please." He was determined to enjoy the experience.

What then took place was a symphony of retail pleasure. Despite the limitations of his military pension and the earnings of his medical work, John was something of a clothes conscious person. Even on a budget, he managed his clothing carefully, generally opting for quality over quantity, and was a regular hunter of sale bargains to get what he wanted. After years in scrubs or uniform, he did tend to go for comfort rather than leading edge fashion, it had to be said; more classic than trend setter.

When his coffee was delivered, Reginald started to gather his materials. "Have you been to Parham House before, Captain Watson?"

John shook his head as he took his first sip of what was a divine coffee.

"Ah, then you are in for a treat, sir! It's one of the finest shooting estates in the country. Invitations are like hen's teeth; very coveted in the shooting world. There hasn't been a vacancy on Syndicate A in, oh my, it must be at least a decade, and they shoot every week on Tuesdays, from October to the end of January. And Syndicate B invitations are very special; only six weekends during the whole season. I've had the pleasure of kitting out many of the guests. It's always a pleasure."

As soon as John finished his coffee, Reginald got down to business. John was measured – in more places than he might have thought to be relevant, but he went along with it. Chest, arm length, back and shoulders, waist. Then both inside and outside leg measurements, around thighs and calves- even his ankles. The measuring for hat size and gloves was just as precise.

He did eventually ask the inevitable question- "Surely there isn't time to get things made to measure? And wouldn't that be hideously expensive?"

"You are right, Captain, there isn't time to go for a fully bespoke approach. If you'd have come a fortnight ago, we might have managed, but we do have time to make adjustments to existing stock so they fit you better. And you are not to even think about cost. This is on Mister Holmes' account. Syndicate B draws a wide range of guests, but standards are very high. Just leave it with me."

No sooner did the tape measure get put down than Reginald opened one of the cupboards lining the walls of the room, drawing out a series of shooting jackets. "The weather in mid-November is likely to be even colder than now and possibly a little wet, so I recommend a waterproof rather than the tweed. A little less flashy perhaps, but more professional. Will you be shooting yourself, Captain, or observing?"

"Please, I'm no longer a Captain; I've retired from the army. Doctor is the only title I use these days. I've been invited to be a loader."

Whatever that was, it certainly meant something to Reginald, who swept three of the jackets away immediately, and drew another one out. "Then I really recommend this one- a Schöffel lightweight Ptarmignan Interactive Shooting jacket. You'll be quite busy and the activity can make you rather warm, no matter how cold it is outside. It's waterproof and should give you the shoulder room you need. And, of course, if you are loading for either of the Holmes brothers, you'll need the deep bellows pockets for all the cartridges. Would you like to try it on?"

As John pulled the jacket on, Reginald continued talking. "This one is the right shoulder width, but we will shorten the sleeves a bit. The advantage of the Ptarmignan is that it is just right in the back length for you. There's a matching pair of breeks, as well." He went to another cupboard and pulled out a pair of knee length trousers. "Please, try these on, with these long socks, sir so you get the feel of it. Of course, we will be making adjustments so it will fit you like a glove on the day." Once dressed, Reginald went down on his knees with a box full of pins, making adjustments to the fabric around the knee area. It took almost fifteen minutes before he was satisfied.

"Right, now let's talk about boots, sir." Reginald opened the sliding door on the opposite side of the room, to reveal a wall of knee high boots. "I'm afraid we don't advise the Hunter wellington anymore- rock stars and festivals seem to have reduced it to a mass market brand these days. I recommend the Laksen, sir. Leather is just warmer and more durable than the rubber wellington, and the Vibram soles mean that you are likely to use them more often after the weekend." John thought about it for all of a nanosecond- his feet had been frozen while tramping around the seedier parts of north London. Good stout boots would be especially welcome.

Then it came time for hats. "I recommend the Musto Tweed Technical cap, sir. It has a slightly better brim to keep the rain out of your eyes, and the back of the cap grips better, too. This is important for loaders because your hands are always too busy to adjust a cap."

John decided to ask the man about the way the weekend would go; Sherlock seemed uninterested in the social aspects, but he was curious about what they would be doing.

"As you will have guessed by now, I'm sort of new to this, so any help you can give me would be really useful. What makes it a shooting  _party_ , as opposed to just a chance to use a shotgun legally?"

Reginald smiled broadly. "Well, the  _women_ , for starters. Because it happens over three days, there's more opportunity for socialising, so quite a few wives and girlfriends will come. There's the Friday evening buffet supper. That's informal, just casual wear- I suggest a pair of cords and a nice lambswool v-neck sweater and your regimental tie; that should do nicely. You'll spend Saturday in your shooting gear from breakfast until sunset, then back to the House for a nice cup of tea- and probably a hot bath to thaw out. The dinner that night is formal; lets the ladies have a chance to dress up to the nines- long dresses to go with the gentlemen's black-tie. Will you be wearing your Mess uniform, sir?" When John nodded, the tailor continued, "If you decide to go after duck the next morning, it's a very early start, followed by breakfast to warm up. A sports jacket over a tweed waistcoat will see you through that and Sunday lunch, before heading back to London."

"Instead of a sports jacket, can't I just wear my regimental blazer?"

"Yes, of course! That's perfect, sir."

John let the man have his way on everything else. By the end of it, he'd been fitted for not only the actual shooting gear, but a pair of dark green corduroy trousers, a checked shirt and woven tie for the Sunday. Reginald explained that he would also ensure that knee length shooting socks, gloves and an appropriate pair of thermals would be added to the list, "just in case it's perishingly cold."

"Right, sir, that's you sorted. The clothes will be ready before the weekend. We will send them directly on to Parham House and spare you the need to pack them yourself. Now, will you be taking your own gun or using one of the Holmes' guns? If you are taking your own, I can take you downstairs to the gunroom, where my colleague will be delighted to see to your needs- cartridges and any other sundries."

John hadn't thought of that. He assumed he'd that if he did get his hands on a gun, then he'd be using one of their weapons. So, he declined the offer.

Two hours after entering the shop, he was back out on St James' Street, thinking through the contrasts of the world of the upper class and the desperate struggles of the women who he was speaking to every night _._  His brief respite from the seedy world of prostitutes and human trafficking didn't last long, however, as his phone went off.

**12.03pm Bart's Mortuary- New victims and GUNS; need a second opinion! SH**

He took off on a quick march up toward Green Park tube station and the Victoria Line. After changing at Kings Cross, he'd get off at Farringdon and walk the short distance to Barts- faster than a cab, and a lot cheaper, too.  _Not everyone has Mycroft's income_.


	6. Chapter 6

Lestrade met John on the stairs down to the mortuary. His face was even grimmer than it had been over the previous week.

"What's up, Greg?"

"Three more to add to the body count. The 'Kentish Town Knife Wars' have now escalated into a shooting war. I've got three young men down there, each killed by a single bullet to the head- a classic gangland style execution."

"Where did you find them?" John was worried about their night time work- if guns were involved, he'd need to start carrying his, and that always made him a bit anxious. Sherlock had a tendency to put himself at unnecessary risk –especially when a case wasn't going fast enough for him.

"Found in a back alleyway on a side street off Kentish Town Road, down near the recycling centre. You are not going to be happy when I tell you the name of the street."

"Why?"

"Holmes Road."

"Shit. That's no coincidence, is it?"

"No. I think another message is being delivered. All your digging around has been noticed. The bodies were discovered when the dustmen came to do the weekly rubbish collection. Their hands were tied behind their backs, secured with a plastic zip lock. Anderson found a shell casing on site- but only one, the other two must have been picked up. The gunman was unlikely to find the third one- it had rolled under the wheelie bin that was locked into place. It was only visible when the rubbish was collected, so we got lucky. Anderson's running the casing programme now; it's a long shot- literally. If we can find a bullet in one of the bodies, I really hope we can get the gun make."

The DI pushed open the double doors into the mortuary. This time, Sherlock and Molly were bent over the first of three metal trolleys. He was watching as she did an extraction deep into the skull of the victim.

John and Greg approached and the doctor studied the other two bodies. He spoke out loud as he examined them. "Young white men, in their late twenties or early thirties, heavily muscled, no tattoos or visible marks, each with a bullet in the back of their heads." Sherlock didn't move, his eyes were on the body that Molly was working on, using his height to look over her shoulder.

"Um, could you stand back a bit, Sherlock? You're in my light."

The tall man snapped upright and took a step backwards. "Sorry. Just curious to see if I'm right."

"Right about what, Sherlock?" Whatever patience Lestrade might have had was gone, after three weeks of escalating violence and no concrete evidence of progress. The Divisional Chief Superintendent was leaning on him mercilessly. "Come on, cough up if you know anything."

"I don't  _know_ , do I? I am working on a number of hypotheses, but the bullets may be crucial. Especially if they tell us that the pistol that fired the nine calibre bullet has six rifling grooves in the barrel."

Lestrade looked blank. "Nine calibre is standard stuff for pistols, Sherlock. Why would that tell you anything?"

"The Cugir factory has a distinctive rifling in its barrels; if I'm right, then this is Romanian weaponry. And that links up with the data, as I've narrowed the bayonet down to a Romanian source. That one wouldn't stand up in court unless I can get my hands on one and actually show that it can make the wounds on the first set of bodies. I've placed an ebay order, but it could be another ten days before it shows up. Then Molly will find me a suitable cadaver and I can test the theory."

Lestrade just pinched the bridge of his nose. "Ok, I may be dense here…"

"You usually are, Detective Inspector."

That earned him a filthy look from Greg. "Look; I'm tired and grumpy from being up too many nights in a row. So, cut the comedy act and just tell me what your theory is."

"You know I don't like to speculate when the data doesn't support it."

" _Sherlock!"_ This was said through gritted teeth. "Just bloody well tell me what the hell is going on!"

Molly kept working while the exchange was going on. "Got it!" She pulled the long handled tweezers free from the back of the dead man's neck and dropped a bloody bullet into the specimen pan with a metallic clang. John rinsed it off with distilled water and picked it up with a clean pair of tweezers, holding it up to the light. "Well, you got your nine millimetre, Sherlock." John headed over to the side of the mortuary, where there was a microscope, putting it on the staging and then taking a look. "And the grooves are…weird."

Sherlock started to smile. "Weird will do, until ballistics can confirm an exact match." He leaned back against the lab bench and clasped his latex gloved hands together. "Consider, Lestrade, what evidence we do have. Start with the two dead girls. Their dental work alone makes them Eastern European. Illegal immigrants so we can't know their point of origin. No DNA records, no missing persons reports anywhere. I believe they were killed after being sexually assaulted by someone who was masquerading as a wealthy client. He set up his competition in order to do them out of a very expensive pair of assets, and then used the bayonet to make his point."

"Literally." John tried to keep the smirk off. Lestrade shot him a slightly scandalised look, and John just raised his hands. "Guilty- I know- it's gallows humour. After the hours we've been keeping, I'm surprised I have any sense of decency left. Sorry, Miss Hooper; I didn't mean to offend your sensibilities."

"Oh,…um. Don't bother to spare me, Doctor Watson."

Sherlock was smiling. "John, you've no idea what pathologists say to one another when they think no one else is listening. I am sure she could easily beat your pun, but pathology humour is usually too gross for most people's taste." He didn't see the smile of acknowledgement that Molly threw in his direction. "Anyway, as I was saying, the Romanian bayonet message was probably sent to the opposing side as the best way to drive the point home."

This time Lestrade groaned. "Very punny…."

"Then here comes the unfunny bit, Lestrade. The Bulgarian response is the axe murders. That horseman's axe was most probably a Bulgar antique, given the shape of the wounds. So, a Romanian-Bulgarian territorial dispute, played out in north London. After the bayonet and axe, we get reciprocal exchanges of arson attacks and the skirmishes between the women. Think of them as foot soldiers in this little war. Now we have escalation. These bullets were most probably fired from a Romanian TTC Tokarev, or maybe their newest pistol, the Mod 2000, both made in the Cugir factory."

The DI stood with his arms folded, thinking through the trail of deductions. "So, you're saying we have our own version of the Balkan Wars going on in north London. I don't suppose you have any ideas about how to stop it from becoming a world war?"

Sherlock frowned. "It won't be easy. This is more than just a murder relating to petty prostitution in Britain, Lestrade. The organised syndicates behind these conflicts involve not just the sex trade- or even human trafficking on a global scale, given that illegal immigration routes are very tightly controlled by the same syndicates. You have to add illegal gun smuggling and the transport and distribution of drugs, which draws in North and South America. These organised crime groups are making millions of dollars in profits, and are run just as efficiently- no, probably even more efficiently- than a global company. If we sweep up a few of the little people, the customer-facing workers, it will make absolutely no difference."

John sighed. "Like a proper war, then. The civilians and even the infantry are just caught up in the battle being waged by generals and arm-chairs strategists."

Lestrade's grim expression grew darker. "Sherlock, whatever questions you two have been asking, it's attracted enough attention that someone is sending  _you_  a personalised message." Greg was uneasy about the whole conversation. He didn't like the idea of an organised crime network focusing attention on Sherlock. It sounded…too dangerous.

Sherlock just shrugged it off. "A bit theatrical, isn't it? They had to dump the bodies somewhere, so why not choose that particular road, if it serves to show you that they know who I am."

"Yeah, but, what's to stop these guys from issuing a professional hit contract on you?"

"Boring."

"Not if they are  _successful_ , Sherlock. You've been sticking your nose rather deeply in this, and I think you need to step back for a while. Let things cool off. Let your brain do some thinking, rather than your feet taking you deeper into dangerous territory. And..." Lestrade decided to play his trump card "it's not just  _your_  life that's at risk; it's John's, too."

Sherlock shot him an irritated look.

Before Lestrade could follow up, his mobile rang. He kept his eyes on Sherlock as he answered.

"Yes, Anderson. What did you find?"

There was a silence, but the DI's eyebrows went up. "A fingerprint on the casing? And it matches something in the system? Right, I'm on my way."

Sherlock picked up his coat and made to follow the DI, who spun about as he pushed open the mortuary double doors. "No, Sherlock. You're not coming with me. You and John go home. Take the night off. I don't want you anywhere near Kentish Town tonight. If Anderson is right, then we've got our first solid lead. The  _police_  can follow this up. It appears we have an assassin, who is armed and that means SO19 will be involved. Guns- that means it's off limits for you. You know the rules. If I see either of you for the next twelve hours, I swear I will have you both arrested for interfering in a police operation- that is, if your brother doesn't round you up first."

"But, Lestrade…

"No buts. Take him home, John."

The double doors swung shut behind the DI, leaving a furious consulting detective and a worried doctor.


	7. Chapter 7

After Lestrade uttered his ultimatum in the mortuary, John couldn't get a word out of Sherlock - he was just speechless with anger at being shut out of the case. After watching his flatmate pacing in tight parabolas on the pavement in front of Barts, John went across the little grassy park to snag a taxi coming down West Smithfield. He directed the driver back to where Sherlock was now standing still, with his eyes half closed, and his hands making odd gestures. John had seen this kind of behaviour before, but never in public. He steered Sherlock into the back seat, almost pushing him in. The odd gestures stopped, but Sherlock wouldn't make eye contact with John, just worked furiously on his phone the whole way home, his face set in a permanent scowl. The doctor could feel a full-throttled strop coming on. It was rare that Lestrade pulled rank on the consulting detective, and it worried John.

As soon as he got back in the flat, Sherlock commandeered the whole wall behind the sofa as a make-shift evidence board. The sofa got pushed into the centre of the room, and turned around so it faced the wall. The smiley face gazed down benignly. When he wasn't pacing in front of the wall, Sherlock was sitting or lying on the sofa staring at it. Three days later the face was buried under a mass of bits of paper, photos, print outs of maps, and yellow sticky notes with his spidery scrawl on them. The far right-hand side had a piece of flip chart paper with an organisation chart drawn in black magic marker pen, with green twine connecting sections of it with materials across the wall. The left-hand side had a similar, but different chart, with blue string to another set. There were a whole series of neon pink post-it notes with big question marks- the gaps in the consulting detective's knowledge. He had not spoken once over the three days. John's questions had been totally ignored.

The doctor was getting royally fed up with it. "Want a cup of tea, then?"

No reply. Instead came a frenzied attack by Sherlock on his laptop, in search of something.

John got hungry and cooked himself an evening meal of scrambled eggs and bacon.  _The smell of bacon cooking- surely he can't ignore that?_

The plate of food went cold, along with the cup of tea that John set beside Sherlock. A glance over his shoulder showed John that Sherlock was deep in some obscure site, written in Cyrillic.

"You read Russian?" John tried to sound less than amazed, but surprise crept into his tone.

A grunt, which John took as agreement. Then, "unfortunately, this is Bulgarian and, although there are some similarities in the Slavic roots, the common alphabet obscures the huge differences between the languages. Google translations are…amazingly stupid at times." He sounded fed up. “But I don’t have time to learn Bulgarian.”

Still, it was the first time he'd spoken in days, so John tried to keep him going. He pointed to the left hand side of the wall- the one with the blue strings. "You've made more progress up the chart with this one; tell me what it all means."

Sherlock just sighed.

"Come on. Sometimes just hearing yourself talk out loud can help. And, who knows, I might be better than the skull. I can ask a stupid question that makes you realise something."

Sherlock got up from the sofa and went to the wall. "This is the Romanian side. This whole crime spree is far, far bigger than a dispute over working girls, John. The evidence trail…" and he gestured to the strings "… is going up the food chain- through a series of companies that are inter-related, some private, some state owned. I think the source of the problem lies in the privatised section, Fabrica de Arme Cugir, which was spun off the national ROMCARM company. It's almost impossible to discover who the owners are, but it is clear that there are some people in the system there who are siphoning off arms illegally. They transit the EU legally as part of a NATO contract, but some shipments just conveniently disappear and end up in the UK, before being shipped to the US, where they are modified and then sold to the Mexican drug cartels. It's a huge business- we are talking billions of dollars."

John was stunned. "Arms sales? I thought this was a human trafficking problem?"

Sherlock shook his head. "It's all linked. If you are successful at one form of logistics and transport, then the same supply chains can be used for other purposes. The Romanian WASR 10s are, apparently, the weapon of choice for the Mexican drug cartels, which are paying for the arms with drugs. I think the place where the payments are being made, the exchange of weapons for drugs, is here in the UK. And I think the Bulgarian crime syndicate is trying to muscle in on it."

John looked askance. "Um, isn't this sort of ….you know…out of your league?"

That earned him an offended look from his flatmate. Undeterred, John carried on. "Well, it's got to be something that Mycroft would be aware of."

"Would it? You overestimate the aptitude of the security services, John. They are so busy looking at the problem from the other side that they might not connect what looks like a small local matter on the surface with what they know about the international problem."

John sat down on the sofa so he could really scrutinise the evidence wall. "But, why would criminals on that level be even remotely interested in something so mundane as a group of prostitutes and their punters on the backstreets of a north London suburb?"

Sherlock flopped down into his chair, with a frown on his face. "The problem is, no one out there fighting crime gets it from the perspective of the criminal organisations."

"And you do?"

Sherlock glared. "Yes, I do. Consider it this way, John. If these two Eastern European crime syndicates  _really_  went after each other all out, it would be worse than an actual war. They certainly have the weapons to do it, and are not bound by any treaties. There are no rules of engagement- no Geneva Convention, no concern at all about civilians caught in the crossfire. They have the manpower, too- they could launch punitive strikes against one another that would rack up casualties in the thousands. And they could take the fight to anyone or more of the dozens of countries in which they operate. But once they got started, how would it end? Bloodshed on that scale becomes very difficult to stop. They don't have the political mechanisms that national governments have; there's no 'UN for the Criminal Underworld' to settle disputes without wholesale war."

He sighed and drew his hands through his hair, as if he needed the feel of it to ground him. "If the cartels lose control, the conflict spirals into all-out warfare. Just look at Mexico- from 2007 to 2012 there were nearly 50,000 civilian casualties there due to fighting between drug cartels - more than there were in Afghanistan during the same period. Nation states have armies to keep the bloodshed down to a minimum. Organised crime isn't allowed the same luxury; they  _know_  how much it costs them when these fights get out of hand. So, wherever they can, they prefer to fight little skirmishes, proxy wars- one little bit against another bit- to try to show their muscle off without risking everything. It's what happens when opposing forces have the ability to cause mutually assured destruction."

"Sherlock, surely  _someone_  has figured this out?"

That earned his second 'death stare' from Sherlock. "Yes, John,  _I_ have. Unfortunately, Lestrade doesn't see this as anything other than what it appears on the surface- a local gang issue. And the world's intelligence and security services don't realise that it's anything other than a local matter, under the jurisdiction of the police.  _That's why the syndicates do it this way."_ The consulting detective made this last point through gritted teeth.

John was reminded of Mycroft's haunting words on the very first night he took John into that abandoned warehouse.  _When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield._  But, the battlefields he'd been on over the past nine months had been London ones; now he realised that this recent conflict was just one part of a global war.

"All the more reason to tell Mycroft."

Sherlock waved his hand in dismissal. "It's beneath his radar. 'Leave it to the police, brother' would be his reply. He's a lazy git. From his perspective, he'd just want to push this little war off the coast- 'go find somewhere else to play, please'. Oh, MI5 does its bit on organised crime, but they are pushed by politicians to do the counter-terrorism thing, which may be scarier to the public, but is actually far less damaging to society than what the crime syndicates are doing. MI6 is only interested in what's going on overseas; a little 'local difficulty' here at home is beneath their concern. Most so-called intelligence services are…rather short on intelligence about these things. Too big picture to get involved in the nitty gritty detail-that's what makes them vulnerable. This just falls between the cracks of our system."

John thought about what Sherlock was saying, and instinctively knew that the man was right. It made sense. Act out their ambitions against one another in a theatre of war that was actually disguised as a local crime problem- and the criminals would get away with it.

"Do you think the latest murders- and the bodies being dumped on Holmes Road- are because they know you know, so it's meant as a message to you- a sort of 'get your tanks off my lawn' kind of warning?"

Sherlock was up now and had walked over to the window overlooking Baker Street. "That's what is puzzling me. If they'd acted the way I expected them to, then our questions would have been dealt with the way a local crime group would- send a few heavies after us on the street and try to give us a thumping. I was counting on that as a way of getting the local management out of the shadows- that was the best tactic to bring them into the Yard and try to finesse the next level of information out of them. But this?  _This_  suggests someone with a brain is actually working it through."

John thought about the wisdom of Sherlock's setting himself- and John as well- up for a beating in the hope of a case breakthrough. "I'm not following you there- aren't the bodies on a road named after you a pretty good way to get the message across?"

Again, that provoked a disdainful gesture of dismissal. "That's just it. Anyone who knows me knows it would be pointless. But this wasn't aimed at me; it was designed to spook Lestrade into making me step back- which is exactly what happened. That's clever. But, it's the second step that is  _really_  clever- setting up someone to take the murder rap to shut the police up. They will be satisfied that they've got their man, and will close the case. It just stops anyone from thinking through the deeper significance. So, they've planted a shell casing with a fingerprint. I expect Lestrade to ring at any minute to tell me that they've found the suspect. Of course, he will be dead, or be shot dead when they try to arrest him- convenient for the crime networks. The police get to tick a box, a murderer is dealt with without the expense of a public trial. It's a real 'win-win'."

The tall brunet's shoulders slumped. "Done deal, they'll move onto the next homicide, without realising that they've just blown the only chance we had to get to the upper echelons of the crime syndicates." He turned from the window, and John saw a strange look come into Sherlock's eyes- surprise, mixed in with…what?...admiration? John couldn't read it.

Then, Sherlock nodded to himself. "It's clever,  _really_  clever. If I had tried to devise a way to stop me in my tracks, to ensure the syndicates are protected- well, this is what I would have done. I wonder who thought of it?"

He sat back down on the sofa, steepled his hands beneath his chin, and disappeared into his Mind Palace again, leaving John to try to puzzle through everything that his flatmate had just said.


	8. Chapter 8

"Get up, Sherlock. We have a train to catch."

There was a low groan from the sofa. "Must we?" It was rather plaintive.

"Yes. Your idea, if you recall. Take the 3.10 from Victoria Station to Bognor Regis, you said, getting off at Pulborough. There's supposed to be someone meeting us at the station there, to take us to Parham. It will take you a half hour to take a shower, get dressed and I'm going to have something to eat before we go. I am assuming that you are already packed." He had put his best sergeant-major parade ground tone on- the one that did not accept 'no' for an answer.

"You go. I'm staying here."

"No, you're not."

A single grey green eye opened to stare at him suspiciously. "Says who?"

"Says the man who kept you company on all your midnight patrols last week, and the previous three weeks. I can't help it that, as you predicted, last night the murderer was tracked down and shot dead when he resisted arrest. But it's not my fault or yours that the case has been closed."

Sherlock sighed theatrically. "That's supposed to  _cheer me up?_ "

John pursed his lips, while looking down at the thoroughly depressed figure supine. "Sherlock, you've been sulking on the sofa for three days and three nights. It's time to take a break."

"But, as I told you, they've just set someone up who could be blamed for pulling the trigger. The police don't care who the mastermind was behind it. The case isn't _solved_ , John. It's a long way from being solved, in fact." The eye closed again.

"Sherlock. Lying there, working up from a bad mood into an even angrier state of mind…it's not going to solve anything. Whereas getting out of London, breathing some fresh air, seeing something other than the seedier parts of street nightlife, or the inside of these four walls again, well…that's going to give you a fresh perspective on the problem. Nothing is going to happen while we are in West Sussex; you can take a few days off. Lord knows, I need it. And so do you. So, get up."

There was no movement.

"Sherlock. If you don't come along willingly, I will text Mycroft and tell him to kidnap you. Just do this. You said you would."

That got both eyes open, at least. "You know, you can be a terrible nag at times."

"Yeah, well, if you weren't such an insufferably stubborn idiot at times, I wouldn't have to be."

The threat and exchange of insults seemed to get enough of Sherlock's brain cells firing that it did the trick. He sat up, with a look on his face that was not far off the pout of a ten year old. But he did get up off the sofa and disappear into his bedroom.

While Sherlock showered, John had a sandwich and finished his own packing. He hoped that his new clothing would be there waiting as the outfitter promised. He put his Mess uniform in the suit carrier, along with his regimental blazer; in the small duffle were a few other items. Even so, he looked askance when Sherlock came out his bedroom carrying something far smaller than John's bag. "Travelling light, then?"

"I sent some stuff on with Mycroft's driver. He's too lazy to take a train, so I thought I'd take advantage." Sherlock had then walked over to the evidence wall and took a whole series of close up photos on his phone.

"Just give it a rest, Sherlock. It will still be here when you get back."

Without a word, Sherlock stuffed his small bag with his laptop and a scientific journal, and then marched down the stairs.

_Great; he's going to be in a right mood all weekend._

Twenty five minutes later, the two of them exited a taxi at the side entrance of Victoria Station. John paid for the taxi, and caught up with his flatmate, who was standing to the side of the entrance looking at his phone, out of the steady stream of passengers coming in and out.

John started to move off, saying "I suppose we'll have to join a queue to get tickets," but Sherlock shook his head, waving two tickets in his gloved hand. "The joys of online ticket purchase." The taller man then headed off in another direction. "Platform seven," he said, over his shoulder to John. "Bognor Regis line, via Horsham. Trains go every half hour on a weekday- if timetables could ever be believed."

Once on the train, Sherlock went into the first class carriage and selected one of the empty two facing seats. He took his laptop out and threw his soft bag up on the luggage rack and sank into the seat facing backwards from the direction of travel, pulling his phone out of his coat pocket and dropping it onto the little table between the two seats.

John hung up his suit carrier on the hook by the window and put his case down on the floor, in the space between his seat and the next on up the carriage, then sat opposite Sherlock. "Why first class? I mean, standard class seats would have done; they arrive at the same time as these do. Or can't you face mixing with the common folk?"

Sherlock looked up from his phone. "John, you are 1.69 meters tall. A standard seat will fit you fine. I, on the other hand, am 1.83 meters- and, as such, find ordinary seats very uncomfortable. I'm not a snob; I am just practical. It's all a matter of leg room. And I am glad  _you_  are sitting opposite. A man of average height would mean I'd have less space." He smirked.

John did not like being reminded of his stature, so he shut up for a while, retreating behind the free Evening Standard he'd picked up at the station entrance. The train trundled out of Victoria Station right on time, and then crawled across the Thames River on the rail bridge next to Chelsea Bridge. As he looked up from the sports page, John had a perfect view of the derelict Battersea Power Station on his left.  _Wonder whether it looks as run down and decrepit on the inside as it does on the outside?_

The train rattled through south London, past the back gardens of endless rows of two and three storied terraced houses. As central London gave way to the semi-detached homes of the suburbs, John realised that it wasn't as unfamiliar as he thought it would be- this was the same line to Gatwick Airport. Forty minutes later, the train left the airport behind and took a sharp right turn- heading west, away from the mainline from London to Brighton. This was new territory for John. Once passed the town of Crawley, the landscape took on a distinctly rural feel. The occasional fields of wheat stubble, or fields ploughed ready for winter planting, were intermixed with pastures, divided by hedgerows and peppered with little copses of trees. The train climbed, and the embankments became steeper, the train line going through cuttings, surrounded by deeper woods.

John enjoyed the view. Out here, away from the heat of London streets, trees showed more of the advancing autumn. Leaf colour was still evident but they were fewer leaves left on the trees. The tall buildings had protected the London trees more from the gales that had marched in from the Atlantic over the past nine days.

John looked at his fellow passenger sitting across from him. Sherlock was slouched down into his Belstaff, the scarf still around his neck. The train itself was warm enough, so John had shed his jacket soon after they left the station. But Sherlock wore his coat as a kind of armour –shielding him from the rest of the world. John smirked. He'd come to realise the Belstaff was his flatmate's security blanket.

Sherlock was totally ignoring the passing scenery. He'd worked on his phone briefly, then fired up his laptop and started doing some work.  _You can take Sherlock away from the crime scene, but you can't take the crime scene away from Sherlock._  He'd clearly brought all the data he'd been working on from the past week, and was now linking it up with the photos he'd just taken of his evidence wall. John found himself wondering whether their hosts for the weekend would be particularly annoyed if Sherlock ended up staying in his room working the whole time. He sincerely hoped he would not have to try to explain his flatmate's antisocial behaviour.

That sent John's mind off on a tangent. He'd not had the time really to do much in the way of research about Parham Estate. He'd tried to Google* it but not had any luck beyond an address and telephone number.

"Sherlock."

"Hmm?" He didn't lift his eyes from the laptop.

"I tried to find out more about the Parham Estate, but there's nothing on the internet."

"No. It's leased to the government for private conferences and meetings, so they don't advertise its presence. Security and all that."

"You've been there before?"

"Yes."

"If it's government run, then how come we get to do this shooting party there?"

"The ponced-up prat who owns it let it out to the government on the proviso that he kept the shooting rights."

"Oh."

John thought about it. "That's the second time you've done that."

"Done what?" This time, Sherlock at least looked up briefly at John, before returning his gaze to the screen.

"Been rude about the person who invited us. From your tone, he's an aristocrat?"

When Sherlock nodded, John continued, "What have you got against the aristocracy?"

That earned him a sharp look. "What's there to  _like_  about them? The English nobility are an anachronism, John. A social class well beyond its sell-by date. Why should one person, simply because of their genetic inbreeding, be more worthy of inheriting vast sums, lands and entitlements, than any other person who had actually done something useful for society?"

John smirked. "That sounds…rather political. I thought you weren't interested in politics?"

"I'm not. Whoever gets elected to Parliament, whoever is Prime Minister, is irrelevant to me- totally worthy of being deleted because it makes no difference. No political party is going to abolish the class structure in this country; it is too useful for them."

"But, Sherlock, that isn't fair. The last Government reformed the House of Lords, kicking out hundreds of peers. Surely that changed things?"

"Did it? I don't think so. Most of the backwoods peers of the realm never went anywhere near the House of Lords except for State openings or grand events. They like the ermine and coronets; it's their version of a fancy dress party."

John snorted. "I'd never have put you down as a member of the common people, Sherlock, but that sounds vaguely socialist in tone."

"Socialist? Hardly. I don't actually know or care what that means. All I do know is that the English devotion to the class hierarchy serves no useful function."

The doctor decided to keep teasing his flatmate. "Given the clothes you wear, I always thought you'd be on the side of the wealthy classes."

Sherlock scowled. "John, I wear tailor-made clothes for a very practical reason- they are the only ones that actually fit me. I am too tall and have shoulders that are too broad for the width of my chest and hips. If you hadn't noticed, I'm too thin to fit mass market clothes. If I didn't get things taken in, or better still made to measure, I'd be swamped in them. And, loose clothing exacerbates my sensory problems- I literally cannot bear to have things rub, rustle or otherwise irritate my skin. Close fitting clothing is the only thing that allows me to stop thinking about that and focus on other things that are far, far more interesting."

John had not thought of it in those terms, but it made sense. But he wasn't quite ready to surrender his initial conclusion that Sherlock must have a privileged upper class background. "So, if you are more a man of the people than a peer of the realm, where'd you learn to shoot pheasants? That's a sport that has to be the last refuge of the English upper classes, now that fox hunting on horseback has been banned."

Sherlock sniffed. "It's not like that, John. The shooting industry directly employs over 70,000 people, the vast majority of whom are rural country workers. Two thirds of the rural land area in the UK involves managed shooting in some way, and it's a business sector that contributes over £1.6 billion every year to the economy."

He gestured out the window at the wooded hillsides. "Very few woodlands would exist as anything other than conifer plantations if it weren't for shooting. Managing the land for game means helping biodiversity, and protects a lot of species that would not survive if their habitats were not managed."

"You said the other guests would be hooray henrys. So, is that just this particular shoot?"

Sherlock sniffed, dismissively. "The vast majority of the nearly half a million people who shoot every year are ordinary citizens- not the landed gentry or aristocracy. More than half of the shooting days that take place every year are for pest control- woodland pigeons take vast quantities of a farmer's grain crops, and your bread prices would be higher if it weren't for the countrymen using their shotguns to keep these pests under control. But that's hardly going to be of interest to the lords and ladies, is it? They are there for the delightfully old-fashioned nostalgia of the whole experience- the one day that they can pretend to be superior without the people around them sniggering. And this shoot's owner does fall into that trap."

John thought about the internet research he had done. "It seems to be its own little world. I looked up some stuff about shooting etiquette, tipping gamekeepers, all the jargon- I mean 'pickers up', 'beaters', 'flankers' and 'stops'- it has its own vocabulary. And stuff like hand-written thank-you letters."

"Of course, John; welcome to the other side of the looking glass."

That made the doctor smile. He'd been right. Already he was learning things about his flatmate that he didn't know. "So, you're a fan of Alice in Wonderland."

That led to an eyebrow rising across the table from him. "Yes, I did read the books when I was a child. From what you know of me, do you really think I could resist a jabberwock?" The smile on his flatmate's face brought a Cheshire cat to mind.

He sniggered. "Half the time I don't understand what you are saying, so slithy toves and borogoves wouldn't surprise me at all, coming from you. Are we likely to meet any Red Queens, or Mad Hatters this weekend?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't control the guest list, do I? Some estates end up with too many bankers purchasing a day's shooting for corporate hospitality purposes, so people can sneak a day away from work. That won't happen on this estate, as it is invitation only- you can't buy your way in. We won't know who else is there until we meet them later tonight- the first buffet supper is a chance to figure out what our host's agenda is."

"Do you know the host, then?"

"Yes." Sherlock's attention had returned to his laptop.

"What's he like then?"

"You'll find out soon enough, John. Far be it from me to prejudice your opinion in advance."

John couldn't help but notice the little smile on his flatmate's face. _Curious and curioser._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unlike John, you can google Parham House and see it in all its glory. Obviously, I have hijacked it and its history for the purposes of my story, but I thought those of you who want to take a peek at the photos, can do so.


	9. Chapter 9

When the 3.10 out of Victoria pulled into Pulborough Station at 4.19, it was already starting to get dark. John and Sherlock got off the train, along with a half dozen other passengers. Unlike the rest of them, Sherlock headed straight through a side gate into the car-park rather than using the bridge to exit through the station building on the opposite side of the track. John followed in his wake; after all, his flatmate had made the arrangements, so presumably knew where they would be picked up.

In the twilight, Sherlock went across the tarmac to where a Landrover was waiting. The driver got out and greeted them.

"Well, I'm a poorer man for the sight of you, Sherlock Holmes."

"Lose a bet then?"

"Yes. Twenty five pounds to Walters, 'cos I thought you'd cry off."

"You should know better." Sherlock opened the rear passenger door and climbed in, without a backward glance, dumping his laptop bag on the seat beside him.

Once again, John was unimpressed with Sherlock's social skills; he'd been abandoned on the tarmac with no idea who this person was, or what he should do. John looked at the driver- a big man, with a weather-beaten face under greying short red hair. His Scottish origins had been betrayed at his very first words.

John just muttered to himself, "Sherlock, where are your manners?"

"'Och- nae mind him. You must be John Watson. I'm Frank Wallace, the Parham Gamekeeper." He offered his hand to shake but then laughed when he realised John's hands were full of luggage. He took the suit bag and duffle from John, and put them in the back of the Landrover. "It's great to meet you in the flesh. I read your blog all the time to keep tabs on what he's getting up to these days." He came around and opened the front passenger side door. "Climb in, and we'll get out of here before the northbound train gets in and all the south coast commuters jam up the exit."

John obliged. He always liked Landrovers; despite their reputation in Afghanistan amongst the British troops, who called the Snatch model a 'mobile coffin'. He liked sitting up where visibility of the rest of the traffic was easy, because the wheelbase was high enough to clear off-road obstacles.

"So, is it to be 'Doctor' or 'Captain'; which do you prefer?"

"John will do." He was determined not to act like one of the upper classes, no matter what the company.

"So, John, has the prat in the back told you anything about where we're headed?"

John was slightly taken aback by the banter; it suggested that the gamekeeper knew Sherlock rather well. "Uh, no. Nothing."

"Well, let me remedy that."

This drew a caustic comment from the backseat. "Just the tourist info, Wallace."

John caught the gamekeeper looking in the rear view mirror to see what Sherlock was up to.

"Right- you're about to enjoy the finest shooting estate in southern England, in my humble opinion."

John smiled; the man was obviously proud of his role at Parham. "What brings a Scot from Aberdeenshire to the south of England? I would have thought the shooting estates in Scotland would be bigger, better, and just a little bit closer to home."

He laughed. "You've an ear for an accent then. Aye, well- I found grouse heather moor to be a lot of hard work for just one type of bird. My father taught me the trade and sent me south. Canny man, he was. I came to Parham half a lifetime ago as a lad and got the taste for it. I'm lucky. Twenty years ago there were ten thousand full time gamekeepers, now it's down to three thousand. And what a place to do it! Nothing to beat a deciduous wood for great shooting. Pheasant, partridge, woodcock, duck. It's never boring. Eight hundred and seventy five acres- it's even got a deer park. I hope you've a taste for venison; because you'll be eating what the estate produces. Cook is just wonderfully good at game."

The Landrover cleared the small town of Pulborough and headed east. Then a slow leisurely bend south took them past fields. At a cross roads, John noticed a sign to the left for the West Sussex golf club, followed by a sign to the right for an RSPB bird reserve. He was curious. "What sort of wild birds do you get down here?"

"Pulborough Brooks is mixed habitat- the Arun river valley has heathland, woods, flooded meadows in the winter. It's a magnet for ducks, geese, swans. Up to the end of January Parham acts as a spill-over- we get the benefit of migrants when there's no room at the reserve."

Just after the bird sanctuary entrance, the road forked; the main branch bore to the left, but the Landrover took the smaller right hand road. They came to a T junction with another road. Straight ahead, set back from the road about five meters was a pair of very large solid metal gates, between two brick pillars. In both directions from the gates, John could see a high stone wall. The Landrover pulled across the lane and stopped in front of the gates, which is when John saw the CCTV camera. After a brief moment, the heavy solid metal gates slid apart, and they drove through into a short stretch of drive bounded on both sides by the stone wall. Then they had to stop again in front of another pair of metal gates. These looked much older, more decorative- an effect that was somewhat marred by another set of cameras which scanned the car before slowly opening on some sort of automatic track.

Once they passed through, the road passed beyond the stone walls, straight between a great avenue of tall trees, backed by deep woods. They'd only gone about 500 meters when Sherlock leaned forward from the back seat. "Stop."

The Landrover slowed. Even before it rolled to a halt, Sherlock had unclipped his seatbelt, opened the door, and was out of the car before John could even register what was happening.

"Sherlock? What's going on?" John's dismay at his flatmate's behaviour was clear. But the car door slammed and Sherlock disappeared into the woods beside the car without replying.

John gave a startled look to the gamekeeper. "Um…I'm sorry. I haven't a clue why he did that. I should go after him." He started to unbuckle his own seatbelt.

Wallace just laughed. "Leave him be. I'm not surprised he wants to take a look. It doesn't matter." And he drove off without a backward glance. The headlights of the car picked up the undulations of the straight road through the trees. John had to stifle his instinct to look back to where Sherlock had disappeared into the darkness. _What the hell is he doing?_

The gamekeeper seemed unconcerned. "Well, let me do the tourist stuff, then. Parham House was built on medieval foundations- the deer park is certainly older than the house, as is the lake. It was monastic property belonging to Westminster Abbey, in the first place, but after dissolution the lands were ceded by Henry VIII to Sir Thomas Palmer. It took his family a while to actually build; the house's cornerstone was laid in 1577; by that time the first Queen Elizabeth was on the throne. There've only been two families to own it. The current one took over in 1647, and has been here ever since."

"Sherlock said it's leased to the Government now?"

"Yes, His Lordship thought it would help preserve the estate. He lives in London most of the time, so it makes sense. We keep busy with the events; the meetings and conferences bring income and keep the estate workers in jobs. The farms just don't produce enough profit to keep themselves above water, let alone pay for the upkeep on a Tudor house. It's a sensible business arrangement, and you won't hear any of the long term staff complaining. Of course, we'd all like him to marry and raise a family here. It might happen still."

John sighed. He didn't really need to hear about some aristocrat's life story. Probably someone that Mycroft had come across in his work. The doctor wondered why Mycroft wanted Sherlock to attend as his guest- maybe there was some sort of case involved? John was still coming to grips with the difference between Mycroft as he knew him, and the fact that he also had an aristocratic title. He'd found that out some time ago, due to a discussion with Sherlock about a piece of mail sent to Baker Street, addressed to 'The Hon. Sherlock Vernet Holmes'*. Sherlock had dismissed his brother's title as meaningless- Mycroft didn't use it professionally, preferring to be called 'Mister'. There were lots of peerages that were awarded on a life basis to people who had done a service to the country; John had known of one peer, Lord Farclas, who had been an owner of a chain of car mechanic garages in Northumbria; he'd been a keen supporter of John's regiment.

Then the car emerged from the trees into what John guessed must be broad parkland. In the growing darkness it was hard to tell. On the right was a tall stone wall; then John caught his first proper look.

"Wow." John was surprised at the size.

Wallace laughed gently as he slowed the Landrover down. "Wow, indeed. It's big- one hundred and twenty six rooms in all of the buildings together." The car swept into the gravelled drive with a circular fountain in the middle, between two impressive buildings. On his left was a house, lit up in the darkness. Grey stone walls, three stories high, with steep pitched roofs and tall chimneys; the building was floodlit. To his right was an equally impressive two storied set of connected buildings with a tall domed clock astride a square tower with an arched gateway beneath it. Wallace took the Landrover through the archway into a large three sided courtyard beyond.

"I hope you don't mind the walk across to the house. The garages are on this side, where I can park the Landrover without spoiling the view for the rest of the guests."

John realised there was something he'd been meaning to ask the gamekeeper. "That reminds me- why weren't there other guests for you to pick up at the station?"

"Most of them are arriving by private car. Another couple are due by helicopter in the morning. The helipad is between the cricket pitch and the estate chapel." He parked the car and hopped out, going to the back to collect the luggage as John emerged. The courtyard of buildings was almost as impressive as the glimpse he had caught of the main house. All grey stone, and in immaculate condition, lit up with soft but effective external lighting. Through the windows, John could see a meeting room, what looked like offices, and quite a number of uniformed staff at work.

"Follow me."

John hoped he wasn't gawping too much like a tourist- but it was...impressive.

When they crossed back under the clock tower, John saw the Elizabethan house properly. The wings at both ends presented a wall of tall, thin glass windows; the middle section was set back from the wings, with a square stone entrance in the middle. Lights blazed from the windows, speaking of wealth and privilege…with more than a hefty dose of history. Wallace led the way across the crunching gravel, but John ground to a halt, hesitating for a moment, wondering where Sherlock was, and how he was going to explain his absence to whomever it was that had invited them both.

Wallace caught the hesitation, and stopped. "Doctor Watson?"

"What am I going to say to the host? For God's sake, I don't even know what his name is! How am I going to explain Sherlock's disappearance? The idiot's wandering around in the dark, trespassing on this man's property, and he's left me totally in the dark, as well."

Wallace started to chuckle, and it grew into a belly laugh. When he caught his breath again, the gamekeeper wheezed out, "He's a great galoot, by God. He's not told you a  _thing_ , has he?"

"Sherlock? No- he hasn't." And John was more than a little annoyed about that fact.

Wallace tried to stifle his chuckling. "Well, now, you can relax, John. Sherlock's just having a wee joke. There's nothing to worry about. He knows his way, after all….You see, Sherlock was  _born_  here at Parham House. His brother, the Viscount, is better known to you as Mycroft Holmes. And if there's one man that knows just how awkward Sherlock can be, that's his own brother."

John just stood there, trying to connect what the man just said to his brain. This house, this huge Elizabethan pile, was the family home of the Holmes brothers.

"I'm going to  _KILL_  him when he turns up."

The gamekeeper was still smiling. "I expect there will be a queue waiting for that privilege by the end of the weekend. Now you know, we'll get you settled in. Come on."

John's anger got him back into motion behind Wallace and propelled him right into the entrance hall of the house, where a prim grey-haired woman stood in a smart black dress.

"Good evening, Doctor Watson. I'm Mrs Walters, the Housekeeper of Parham House." She shot a disappointed glance at Wallace. "So, he decided not to come then? Well, there's me a fool for thinking he'd come if Doctor Watson accepted."

"Och, Missus, you  _were_  right. Sherlock will be along bye and bye- just decided to take the scenic route, wanted out once we got in the gates. I'll honour our wager."

"Mister Wallace." Her reprimand at his mentioning a bet in front of a guest was clear.

"Now, Mrs Walters, be kind to the doctor, he's had a bit of a shock. Turns out Sherlock didn't tell him a thing about Parham or who owns it. He's not exactly been open with his flatmate."

Her eyes widened at the Gamekeeper's words. "Oh, dear. That's intolerably bad manners. I will have to have words with that young man." It was a tone of exasperation combined with fondness that John had heard before, from the mouth of Mrs Hudson.  _Only this one IS his housekeeper._

At that moment, John remembered that part of his original motivation in accepting the invitation was to learn more about the Holmes brothers, and he had just done so. That took some of the sting out of Sherlock's joke. He gave a smile to the Housekeeper. "Mrs Walters, I'm in your good hands. Feel free to tell me anything and _everything_  about Sherlock, especially things he wouldn't want me to know – it's only fair after this little prank of his."

She gave him a slightly impish smile. "I think I can oblige, Doctor Watson. Now do come upstairs with me, and I will get you settled in. Wallace, just leave those cases and things here; I'll get one of the boys to take it up to the right rooms. Doctor, there's time for a little tour if you'd like- let's reconnoitre to help you get your bearings."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Check out my story Entitled, if you have not already read it.


	10. Chapter 10

John followed Mrs Walters across the wood-panelled hall with its black and white square tiles, and then through a broad oak door into ….an amazing room. It was more than twice the height of the room he'd just left. The lower walls were lined with wood panelling, and there was a great stone fireplace on his right. A long wooden dining table with ornate chairs took centre stage in the room, with a wooden chandelier over it. Huge oil paintings- landscapes and portraits graced the three walls; the fourth was made of tall thin leaded light windows.

"This is the Great Hall". Her words echoed off the stone flagged floor. John swivelled his head around to take it all in, and saw the ornate beamed and coffered ceiling. At the far end, he could see tapestry curtains covering arched doorways set amidst carved wood panelling. "If you get lost in the house, the easiest thing to remember is that most corridors and stairs will end up here, and you can find your way again."

He followed her through the archway, she held the curtain back so he could come through to see a stone staircase going up to his left.

"It's typical of Elizabethan houses- a bit of a rabbit's warren, with extensions, wings and oddments added over the centuries, with staircases pushed in higgledy-piggledy to try to make it easier to manage." They went up the stairs to the first floor.

"This is the principal bedroom floor- and where you get a choice, Doctor Watson. You could have one of the main rooms here- it's ensuite." They went down a spacious hall and she opened the fourth door along, to reveal a huge bedroom with a four poster bed, with velvet and brocade drapery.

John walked in and tried to keep a straight face. The furniture was all antique and very fine, totally in keeping with the architecture. Yet more oil paintings of what were presumably Sherlock's ancestors stared down from the walls.

He muttered, "It would be like sleeping in a museum."

"Well, I can understand that point of view- it is a historic room, but it does have all 'mod cons' as they call them these days." She opened the bathroom door and he peered in to see a marble lined room with the latest in fashionable monsoon showers and raised basin designs.

"Um….you said I had a choice?"

"Yes. Sherlock won't be down here. He'll stick to his old room, which hasn't been refurbished. It's up in the North Wing- another floor up from here. To be honest, we tend to put the senior staff members who accompany conference or meeting guests up there, and keep these down here for the VIPS. The juniors get rooms in the Georgian buildings across the way. But this weekend, the guest list is much smaller so there won't be any people up in the North Wing, apart from Sherlock."

"Would you mind if I took a look?"

She smiled. "Not at all. I was told by his lordship that you might prefer it up there."

John still found it odd to hear Mycroft being referred to by his title.

She led him down the corridor to another set of stone steps and then up a flight. This time, at the top, there was a long single room that extended the full length of the main part of the house. John stopped to look at it, amazed. Mrs Walter explained. "This is the long gallery. The barrel vaulting with the painted vine leaves is unique in England. The room was used by the Elizabethan ladies who wanted to walk arm and arm for exercise without having to brave the winter weather. The North Wing is this way, Doctor."

She went on, and John tore himself away from the Gallery to follow. She went down a narrower corridor and then about half way along, there was another stairway, this one much smaller, going down. She turned back to him. "That's the quickest way down- it goes all the way to the kitchens downstairs- but it is pretty narrow; used to be the servants' stairs." This part of the house was much darker than the main section. She opened one of the doors to the right. "This is your alternative- it's been refurbished, and has a good view of Northpark Wood; you'll see it tomorrow in the daylight." John walked in and immediately felt more at home. This room didn't have as high a ceiling; in fact, it had a gabled window and sloped ceilings. The bed was a double, and the walls had attractive red and green striped wallpaper. It wasn't grand, but it was bigger than John's room at Baker Street, and he smiled at the Housekeeper. "This is more my style, Mrs Walters."

She opened a door and called him over. "This one isn't en-suite; I am afraid you would have to share this bathroom with Sherlock."

"Nothing I don't already do at Baker Street. And at least I have my own door in, instead of having to come down the stairs, as I do in London." He poked his head in. This bathroom was rather old fashioned, with white loo and basin, and an enormous roll-top bath on claw feet, complete with hand-held shower attachment looking like some antique brass telephone. The room was tiled in white and black, and well lit. "It's bigger than Baker Street's, too."

She smiled, and then hesitated. "You asked for something about Sherlock's past that he might not share with you voluntarily? Well, the bathtub is one such story. His third nanny- and yes, the first two abandoned ship pretty fast, you'll not be surprised- she was the one who put this tub in- because the sides were too steep for the toddler to get out of on his own. He had a habit of slipping out of the lower sided bath when her back was turned and running downstairs with no clothes on. Shocked a few guests, I can tell you."

John thought of Sherlock parading around 221b wearing little more than a sheet. "I'm not surprised. I suppose I should be grateful that he's now putting something on, even if his choice of clothing can be unorthodox."

They traded knowing smiles, as she opened a door opposite the one from his bedroom. "This is Sherlock's room." He followed her in, and stopped suddenly. It was nothing like the other rooms he'd seen in the house. This one was much smaller. Long and narrow in shape, with just a single window, bracketed by thick curtains and a roll down blind. There was a wooden wardrobe at the far end of the room, then a single bed up against the wall, bracketed at both ends by tall book cases. Then under the window and running the whole length of the room was a long narrow trestle style table up against the wall- a sort of lab bench, but there was no chemistry kit on it. The only other furniture was a plain chest of drawers, and there was a mirror on the back of the door which presumably went out into the same corridor that John's room adjoined. The walls were painted a dull greyish green, and there were no pictures hanging. Apart from the books, the room looked bare, Spartan.

"It's …ah…a bit surprising."

She gave a slightly apologetic look back at the Doctor. "This was the nursery bedroom- your room once belonged to the nanny. Originally the walls in here were light blue and much more cheery, but Sherlock chose this colour when he was twelve. Both boys started up here, but Mycroft moved down when he was four. Sherlock was offered one of the rooms next to his mother at the age of six, but he refused- and stayed up here thereafter. There was a playroom across the corridor, and another room that served as a school room. Both were big enough to be refurbished into proper bedrooms for the conferences."

"School room?"

"Mycroft went to a day preparatory school from the age of five, then a boarding prep before going to Eton when he was thirteen, but Sherlock was home schooled until he was thirteen and a half. His mother taught him until she died. That was when he was ten."

 _Oh, so young!_  John was learning a  _lot_  about his flatmate.

"By the time Mycroft inherited the title, he was already at Oxford. He started university a year earlier than most – always so precocious and bright."

"And you were working here when this happened?"

"Yes, I've been with the family since Mycroft was six."

"So, given you've known Sherlock for…all of his life, is that why you thought he'd come this weekend?"

That made her stop and look at him carefully. "No. In fact, he's not been here for six years, because for him, this house is full of ghosts, Doctor Watson." She paused. "I thought he might make an exception this time, because you had been invited. I'm glad to see I was right. You have no idea how pleased I am about that."

He thought that one through, and was reminded of Mycroft's comment  _("How many friends do you think he has?"_ ) Maybe the answer was more than the elder Holmes thought, if both Mrs Walters and Mrs Hudson counted themselves as such. Whether Sherlock would was a different question.

"Let me show you the rest of the house. There a few things you should see before he shows up. Once his brother gets here and the place fills up with guests, I'll not get the opportunity again."

So, John got his own guided tour, and was shown a library that took up the whole first floor of the South Wing. It was bigger than the public library down the street where John had grown up- and the books looked more interesting, too. "I think he must have read every single one of these books, Doctor Watson. He was absolutely voracious as a reader, almost as keen on that as he was on his chemistry."

Then they went through a row of remarkable rooms on the ground floor- paintings lined the walls as she took him through the Morning Room, the Music Room, the Drawing Room.

She stopped at the corner of the house, in a little anteroom and drew his attention to a painting on the wall. "I think you'll find this one interesting. It's of the fourth Sherrinford Earl, painted in 1793. He was a real Regency Dandy who lost the earldom later- gambled it away, I'm afraid, but the viscountcy remained."

John looked at the portrait. Dark wavy hair surrounded a familiar face. Only the colour of the eyes was different, but the high cheek bones, the curves of the upper lip- it was a startling likeness.

"Sherlock is more a Sherrinford in looks, like his mother's side of the family; Mycroft takes more after his father in his appearance."

John wondered about the father. "Sherlock has never spoken about either of his parents. If all this came on his mum's side, what did his dad do?"

"Richard Holmes wasn't even English; well, not at first, anyway. A Norwegian evacuee in the War, he came to England as a child. Changed his name, became a British citizen, and ended up very wealthy and well-connected in the business world. He owned pharmaceutical companies all around the world."

She turned a corner and down another hall. By now John was pretty much lost. "One last stop, Doctor, and then I will take you back to your room. By now your things will have been taken up. But first, I'd like you to see something."

She touched a key pad that opened a door and then led him into a smaller room; this one was wood panelled, too. A stone fire place at one end had a pair of leather wing back chairs facing it. A dining table at the other end of the room was bracketed by the extraordinary addition of two mounted knights in full armour. Mrs Walters saw his surprise. "These are Mycroft's private rooms- they're used rarely during conferences and meetings. He calls those two Arthur and George- some sort of family joke I've never quite understood." She opened another door with a keypad and went into a similar wood panelled room- this one was a study, with a modern glass-topped desk and bookcases. The housekeeper turned on a wall switch which lit up a series of small lights over paintings on the walls, between the book shelves. She walked John over to one, which he realised wasn't a painting at all, but a photograph- of a very beautiful woman with darkest auburn hair tumbling in curls down past her shoulders, framing the high cheekbones of her face. She wasn't looking at the camera, but rather down at the small boy cradled in her arms, sound asleep. John didn't need the Housekeeper to tell him. "That's Sherlock…and his mother?"

She smiled. "Yes- Violet Holmes, the Viscountess of Sherrinford. And Mycroft took the photo. He was twelve at the time, and Sherlock was five. The camera was a Christmas present and he really enjoyed using it. There is such love in that photo. She adored Sherlock, as difficult a child as he was. And, my goodness, he was a difficult child. The fact that he would sleep in her arms when he wouldn't let anyone else hardly touch him- well, it was his way of loving her back. And Mycroft- he loved them both. So, whatever words get said between the two brothers this weekend, Doctor Watson, don't forget that there was a time when there was love between them, too."

John matched her slightly wistful smile. "Given what I have seen of the way they talk to each other now, it's hard to believe that. So, thanks for sharing that photo with me, Mrs Walters."

She took him back up to his room, and he started to unpack his things, opening the boxes of clothing from William Evans first to remind him of what he had come to the house for- he was looking forward to the whole shooting experience now, even more than he had been before. A chance to see Sherlock and his brother in their family home might reveal more about both of them than he had anticipated.


	11. Chapter 11

After unpacking, John went down the nearest set of stairs. They were narrow and steep, and he wondered how servants would have managed carrying trays and things. _Probably a one-way system in operation._  It made him smile. He'd guessed about the wealth, but never in a million years would he have put Sherlock in a house like this. Maybe Mycroft, but he wondered what being a second son to this sort of inheritance would really mean.

The stairs went down all the way down below the ground floor, opening onto a long wide corridor that was lit by overhead lamps. He poked his nose into the first door, and discovered the kitchen. It was large, bright and surprisingly well kitted out, with modern appliances and work surfaces that wouldn't go amiss in a big London restaurant. A young chap in a white tunic and checked black and white trousers spotted him, and asked "Can I help you sir? Have you taken a wrong turning? It's easy to get lost in the house."

"Ah, I was actually looking for a cup of tea." John tried to keep the amazement out of his voice, He'd sort of thought it would be an old fashioned set up. Then a middle-aged woman in Chef's whites came around the corner.

"Oh,  _you_  must be Doctor Watson!"

John's face must have shown his surprise.

She laughed. "I'm the Cook- Avril Jason. Mrs Walters said you'd arrived. Welcome to the mother-ship."

"This…ah…wasn't what I was expecting."

She beamed. "No, it surprises a lot of people who expect to see something from Downton Abbey- not that many of the guests ever find their way down here, but you are welcome. We cater here for events up to a hundred people, and when you're feeding heads of state, you need all the modern conveniences you can get- and the trained staff. We've even had the Queen and Prince Philip to dinner, so we try to keep the flag flying for the family. Wouldn't do to let his Lordship down."

John wondered what Sherlock thought of royalty, given his dismissal of the aristocracy during the train journey. He'd guess that was one dinner that Mycroft would have been sure  _not_  to invite Sherlock.

"Did I hear you're after a cup of tea?"

John nodded.

"I think we can manage that. Would you like us to bring it to you in your room, or one of the public rooms upstairs?"

"Whatever's most convenient. I'm happy to take something upstairs with me."

"Never you mind. I will sort you out- I think the Yellow Room would be best. The other guests are due to start arriving in about an hour. Will Sherlock be joining you?"

John gave a little shrug. "I don't know. He's…outside; got out of the car before we were halfway down the driveway."

She rolled her eyes. "Gone walkabout, then. He does that. Will stroll in here and grab something out of the fridge if I don't keep an eye on him, and then won't touch a thing at supper. He's not changed in the fifteen years I've been here, even though the kitchens have changed dramatically." She thought about it. "I'll put an extra cup on the tray just in case, and his favourite biscuits. He prefers Darjeeling second flush, but you can have whatever you like- Earl Grey, Assam, Lapsang Souchong, or maybe a green tea? We have Imperial Gunpowder or Jasmine."

"Darjeeling's fine by me, thanks." John looked over his shoulder, back through the door into the corridor, wondering where the hell the Yellow Room was.

"Relax, Doctor Watson. If you just stay put for a few minutes, I will get one of the footmen to take you up there when we've got the tray ready. And, he will show you how to summon someone from any of the rooms, should you want a top-up of hot water or more biscuits."

"Thank you. I am finding the place a…little confusing."

"I have just the thing for that." She went over to a large dresser against the wall- the one piece of furniture that looked out of place amongst all the modern stainless steel- and opened a drawer. She came back and handed him a photocopied floor-plan of the house.

"We use it for the temporary staff. When we get a big event here, we take on extra serving people. And they do get lost, frequently. Guests find it even harder, so there's one of these in every bedroom- yours, too. Just check the desk drawer."

"You're a lifesaver, Miss Jason."

oOo

The Yellow Room was cosier than some he'd seen in the house. This one had a few old landscape paintings, but no brooding ancestors keeping an eye on proceedings. The damask silk brocade wallpaper was a honey colour, and it gave the room extra warmth against the November chill. John sank back into one of the two comfortable sofas, and listened to the wind getting up outside. Not for the first time, he wondered what Sherlock would be doing out there. The silver tea tray brought up had a fine china tea service, and the tea was even better for the home-made ginger and oat biscuits on a plate. He picked up a magazine from the coffee table- West Sussex Life, and started reading about the local farmers' markets.

"She makes good biscuits."

He looked over the top of the magazine to see Sherlock standing by the table. He hadn't heard him come in. "Yes, she does. I've always been partial to ginger nut biscuits, but these are in a whole different class- the aristocrat class." John put his magazine down. "When were you planning on telling me, Sherlock? Before or after I made a fool of myself?" He was still a bit irked about his flatmate's secrecy.

"Does knowing about it change your view of me?"

John thought that one through for a moment, before replying. "Honestly? Yeah…a little. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because it does that…as if a pile of stones and a load of pictures on the wall have any relevance to me."

"And you don't think they do?"

"No. This is Mycroft's world, not mine."

"You were born here, Sherlock. Surely that matters."

"No, it doesn't. My parents thought their heir needed a spare, otherwise, I wouldn't exist. If I never came back to this place, I would not miss it."

John's eyes showed his surprise.

"Why not?"

"Sentiment." He sniffed dismissively. "Do you go back to your childhood home in Corby, John?"

"Not for the past twelve years. I was glad to leave all that behind me when my father died. I can't say that a three bedroomed terraced house built in the 1960s on the Stuart Road was exactly appealing."

"There you are. Familiarity breeds contempt. Isn't that how the saying goes?"

"Yeah, well, my home was rented, and when my dad left for a care home the year before he died, new people moved in. That's what life is like in Corby. It's a little different when your family has owned something like  _this_  for hundreds of years."

Sherlock didn't reply, but walked over to the table where the teapot was.

"Was it just part of the joke or was there another reason why you bailed out of the car before we even got here?" John was not quite ready to forgive and forget.

Sherlock poured himself a cup of tea, putting the milk in first and then using the strainer to keep the loose tea leaves where they belonged. He popped one of the biscuits into his mouth and munched it as he made his way back to the sofa opposite John's. Once he'd sat and washed his biscuit down with a sip of tea, he looked back at his flatmate.

"I was checking out what's changed in the park, to see if Mycroft's ruined anything else."

"Ruined? What's he ruined?"

Sherlock gestured at the room. "This  _was_  my favourite room. It gets wonderful morning light, and I used it to read and think. Now it looks like a lobby area of a five star hotel. The 'refurbishment' to make the house work as a conference venue has changed just about everything he could get away with, without giving the listed building and conservation crew a nervous breakdown. The house is now a mixture of a posh hotel and a foreigner's idea of what an English stately home should look like."

"But, it's still here, when a lot of houses like it are in ruins or been sold off to the National Trust. That strikes me as pretty sensible, given that neither Mycroft nor you are currently living here."

"Has he already been talking to you about it then? I didn't know he'd arrived."

"I haven't spoken to him. I'm just reflecting what the staff have told me. They seem pretty happy with the arrangements."

Sherlock waved a hand. "I don't want to talk about it, John. It's not up to me, and I'm glad it's not. I don't mind coming down here to shoot- that's one of the very few things that would make me want to come back after I left for boarding school. But I haven't been down for years."

John realised his flatmate was closing the conversation down. He tried one more tack. "What could you see outside in the dark? It's pitch black out there, how could you tell if he ruined anything outside?"

Sherlock put the now empty cup and saucer down on the table. "I wanted to see what the estate manager has done to the shooting grounds. There are a few more rides cut through, and some of the undergrowth has been cut back. Better for the beaters, worse for pheasants and other species. Otherwise, from what I could see, there haven't been too many alterations. I will know better tomorrow. I know the land better than the house now, and as a child I preferred it to being indoors. And I always saw most of it at night, when…people….who stopped me from exploring during the day weren't paying attention. In fact, I liked it better at night. I had the whole place and the wildlife to myself then."

That slight hesitation made John think of Sherlock's mother. She was probably the first one to stop a young boy from exploring. The fact that Sherlock had not mentioned her yet said something interesting. John felt another piece of the jigsaw that was his flatmate had been pulled out of the puzzle box, but where it fit, he didn't know. The only time John had ever heard about Sherlock's mother was on that very first night, when he discovered who Mycroft was.  _Mummy_. The word a ten year old would use. Sherlock hadn't said it, but Mycroft had, to a brother who had lost his mother at such a tender age.

John's own mother died when he was in medical school; his father passed away in a care home while he was on his second tour of duty in Afghanistan. He'd known both of his parents when he was more or less an adult. That changed his view of them; made him respect his mum more, his dad less.  _Families- they both make, and unmake us._

He decided to avoid the subject, instead nodding at Sherlock. "I can relate to a love of the great outdoors. Corby isn't the grim 'up north' steel town a lot of people think it is. Within a ten minute walk of home, I had Hazel Wood and Throughsale Park, as well as a boating lake. I liked being outdoors, too. Playing football with my mates and messing about. Not a place to be at night, though, that has to be said."

Sherlock gave a wry smile. "One advantage of high stone walls; they keep the undesirables out." He delivered the comment in a perfect imitation of Mycroft's voice and intonation. John started giggling, and Sherlock joined in.

oOo

Sherlock went up to his room and returned with his laptop, and the book that John had brought with him to read. "If I'd known about the library here, I might not have bothered," he said dryly when Sherlock handed it over.

"You won't find current fiction in there, John. Too many of the books are so old as to be useless."

"I  _like_  old books. It's interesting to read Shakespeare, and I'll bet there's some of that on the shelves."

"Hmmm." He looked up from the laptop, but not at John. "In fact, my mother kept her Shakespeare in here." He waved behind John's shoulder. "There was a bookcase back there, and she had a big anthology of plays that she would read from, while I had the single play books. She'd read one character's lines, and I'd have to read the other."

John tried to imagine that. "How old were you?" He was sure that Mrs Walters had said Sherlock was ten when his mother died.

"We started working through the plays when I was eight. Stopped when I was nine and a half." He was still looking off in the corner, but John saw a flicker of sadness flash across his flatmate's face. Sherlock then took a deep breath and turned to his laptop keyboard, typing away at a furious pace. John decided not to pry any further and they fell into a companionable silence that lasted for almost an hour.

The peace was broken when the door opened and Mycroft came in. The three piece suit had been replaced by a tweed jacket and tie, over a matching waistcoat, with dark green moleskin trousers. Somehow the effect was just the same formality as he usually projected, just a sort of country version.

"Hello, Doctor Watson. I hear that my brother decided to keep you in the dark about this place and its significance. That was rather remiss of him."

John's head gave a leftward tilt. "Well, funny you should mention that, because  _you_  didn't say anything about it either. And given that it was  _your_  invitation to  _your_ family home, I might have expected you to share that fact with me."

Sherlock was now looking at his brother with that sort of forensic intensity that he normally reserved for corpses. In a quiet voice, he commented "You spoke to John _before_  the invitation came in the post." And then he returned to his laptop.

"If I did, it's none of your concern, brother."

"Well, Mycroft, why didn't  _you_  tell me?" John wasn't going to let him off the hook.

"If I had, you might not have come. This way, you judged the invitation on its merits."

John chose a side. "Sherlock, I agree with your assessment that your brother is a manipulative so-and-so. I might have said bastard, but that would be casting aspersions on your mother, so I won't go there." John was determined to make it clear to Sherlock that he was not here as part of some fraternal conspiracy.

Sherlock looked up from his computer. He caught John's eye and smirked before turning his attention back to Mycroft. "Who else is on the guest list?"

"You're fishing, brother."

"Just want to know your agenda. You  _always_  have an agenda on one of these weekends. It might be useful to know, so I can stay well out of it."

"You'll meet four of the six guest guns in about an hour, if you can be bothered to attend the buffet supper, which is sure to be too tediously social for your tastes. The other two guns and one guest arrive by helicopter early tomorrow morning. In addition to John, there are another seven non-shooting guests. So the whole party involved in the weekend is sixteen. I will leave it to you to deduce whatever you can about why they are here." There was a brittleness to his words that he did not bother to hide.

And with that Mycroft turned around and left the room.

John thought that through. His instinct told him that something was annoying Mycroft; something related to this weekend, and to the guest list **.** _A month ago he wanted Sherlock to be here enough to bribe me; now he's not so sure he wants him here._   _What's changed?_


	12. Chapter 12

"What do you think about them, John?"

The buffet dinner had been set up in the formal dining room, for the thirteen participants who had already arrived at Parham. Introductions were made, pleasantries exchanged and the guests mingled. John watched Mycroft manage the whole event with a consummate ease born of countless similar engagements. He'd not seen Mycroft work a room before, and it was a lesson. He knew just the right thing to say to each of the party. The volume of the voices rose into a happy chatter as the excellent wine was drunk and the delicious choice of food was consumed. Sherlock stood aloof, or sat with his back to the wall, observing. He'd speak when spoken to, but did not go out of his way to make conversation with anyone.  _Sod it, I'm here for the social experience,_  thought John, and left him to his own devices, making his way into the various knots of people, introducing himself and learning who and what they were.

For him, it was a challenge to keep track of the names and the titles. Now, in the aftermath of the dinner, he was back with Sherlock, who had bolted to the Library just as soon as it was not considered too rude to leave.

John mentally retraced his movements across the room, recalling the faces. "Brigadier General Berrisford was easy enough to spot; it's simple to pick out a fellow soldier, even if we've both been retired from service for a couple of years. And Christine is a real officer's wife; it's a definite type of woman. If I understood him correctly, the American he introduced me to, Jimmy Ashton, is a civilian who works at the Pentagon, but he knew him; I think their paths crossed in Europe at some point. His sister, Barbara is ah…an attractive woman. I've never met an American woman who wasn't a military or medical person, so she's interesting." He thought about her flirting with him, and realised he'd enjoyed it.

Sherlock snorted. "Interesting? Yes, I suppose, if you like your women to look good, talk a lot and not think too much. Be careful, John, she's here to find a husband. I expect her brother takes her to all the corporate hospitality functions in the hope of finding someone willing to take her on."

John decided to ignore the catty remark; no harm in flirtation. "Then there was the lawyer, Sarah…can't remember her surname; she came with the Eurocrat, Wills, some sort of civil servant? And they seem to be an item. Oh, and the starchy old Foreign Office guy, Sir Martin, who made a point of stressing his wife was ' _Lady'_ Margaret."

"Knighthoods are boringly common, John." Sherlock was stretched out on one of the leather Chesterfield sofas in the far end of the Library. The other guests had decamped from the dining room to the drawing room for after dinner drinks and conversation, but Sherlock wasn't interested in either, so made a quick getaway. John thought about leaving him to it, and staying with the crowd, but he could tell there was something niggling Sherlock, and his curiosity led him to join his flatmate. Actually, he figured he'd learn more about the others by getting Sherlock to deduce their back stories than he would in an entire evening of social conversation. And he was curious about them.

"Keep going." Sherlock has his eyes closed and his fingers steepled under his chin- thinking mode.

"Ah, you mean the blonde and her daughter."

"Yes, John, but there is more to them than just their hair colour."

"Lady….Caroline. Yes, that was it. Attractive, early to mid-thirties, but totally out of my league. Mycroft rather monopolised her, introducing her to everyone. And the teenage daughter who looked like she wanted to be anywhere other than with her mother; her name was Arabella. Sound rather posh, both of them."

"I'll say. The Lady Herbert is the widowed wife of William Herbert, the eighteenth Earl of Pembroke. Predates the Sherrinfords by some fifty years- much to Mycroft's annoyance, no doubt. Pity one of our ancestors managed to lose the earldom; and so she takes precedence."

"A widow? She looks too young."

"Yes, well- it was somewhat scandalous. She's the daughter of a baronet. They married young, her husband died in a car crash four years ago. There was a woman in the car who turned out to be his mistress. It gave the tabloids something to write about. It also turns her into a very wealthy, very eligible widow. I imagine she has to fight them off- the gold digging men."

"Maybe that's why she brings her daughter with her- a kind of shield. You could have cut that kid's sulk with a knife. Made you look positively gregarious by comparison."

Sherlock snorted. "That teenager with spots and an attitude problem will be the Countess of Pembroke when she comes of age."

John suppressed a giggle. "Maybe, but like most teenagers, being dragged along to this weekend isn't the same as spending it with her friends or boys her own age."

John was sitting in an overstuffed wing chair opposite the sofa where Sherlock was stretched out. "So, if that's the cast of characters, tell me what you've figured out about them. You've been watching them for the past two hours, so some deductions must be possible."

Sherlock's eyes opened, and he sat up. "That's the problem, John. I know something about each of them, but I won't know if it's actually relevant until the missing guests show up tomorrow. Something is going on here- my brother will have an agenda. But I can't pull this lot together into anything meaningful yet. It's…frustrating. Every time I think I might be onto some thread that connects them, I end up looking at the merry widow and her teenager- they are the odd ones out. And none of them explain to me why Mycroft has now got his knickers in a twist about me being here. First he bribes you to get me here, and now that I am here, he's making it clear he's not thrilled by my presence. Something's changed. "

John had come to a similar sort of conclusion. "One thing you might not have been able to deduce from where you were sitting in a corner- some of them were invited quite late on."

"Interesting….which ones?"

"Well, pretty much all of them; I didn't ask the widow, but it came up when I was in a group, and Ashton said he was lucky that his travel plans meant he was available; his invite came two weeks ago. There was a lot of head-nodding. And the Sir's wife was also making it clear that she'd had to cancel something that she would rather have gone to than keeping her husband company."

That provoked a little thoughtful smile from his flatmate. "Well, that explains it, then. When Mycroft invited you, he probably had a different guest list in mind. Something, or perhaps some _one_ , has changed that. These particular guests are definitely here for a reason. When the guest list is complete tomorrow morning, I should be able to figure it out."

At that moment, Sherlock's phone peeped, an incoming text. "Ah. I am expecting a delivery. Want to come collect it with me?"

John was confused, but followed him out of the room and down the stairs to the basement corridor. They were at the far end of it from where John had found the kitchen, but here there was a large double set of doors. Sherlock opened the bolts and pulled the right hand door open. On the step outside was Frank Wallace. Behind him on the gravel drive was the Landrover.

"You've brought her." Sherlock's smile could be heard in his voice, even though John was standing behind him and couldn't see it.

"Aye- but I'm going to get in trouble for this. You  _know_  he doesn't want her in the house. When he finds out….well, just so you know; you get to disappear after the weekend, but I will have to live with that disapproving look of his for the rest of the season."

"Tough. How is she?"

"Getting old, like all of us. I've got someone new to work with you tomorrow. Don't even think about taking her out, she'd kill herself with trying for you, but the arthritis is catching up with her now."

John was not following the conversation. Then Sherlock gave a low whistle, and there was an answering bark from the Landrover, which then became a  _very_  excitable series of barks. Frank stepped to the back of the car and opened the door. "Out you come, Bella." He helped down a Labrador, who then ran over to Sherlock. In the light from the corridor, John could see that it wasn't the usual black, but rather brown, a milk chocolate coloured dog.

Sherlock squatted down so he was at eye level with her. She was huffing with excitement, and wagging not just her tail but her entire body. Maybe the dog didn't know he was a self-proclaimed sociopath.

"John, meet Bella. Bella, meet John; he's worth knowing."

John was struck by the phrase. He'd regretted when Sherlock had introduced him a couple of months back as his 'friend', only to have John correct him, defining himself as a 'colleague' instead. Those were early days. But Sherlock had never again introduced him that way- now he was "my colleague", "my flatmate" or "my blogger". In fact, he knew now that Sherlock did not refer to anyone as a 'friend'- not Lestrade, or Mike Stamford, or Molly Hooper, even though they had obviously known Sherlock far longer than John had.

The doctor bent down to scratch behind the old dog's ear. "The man's best friend. Hello, Bella." She leaned into his hand, obviously enjoying the rub, but her eyes didn't leave Sherlock.

Frank handed Sherlock a slip lead. "See you very early in the morning. Good Night, Doctor Watson."

Sherlock gestured, pointing the dog into the house. She trotted in as if she owned the place. Once inside, Sherlock re-bolted the door.

"Is she your dog?" He would have to rearrange his image of Sherlock as someone capable of forging a bond with a pet.

"No. Gun dogs are bred for working. We weren't allowed pets of any kind, and certainly not in the house; Mycroft still keeps the dictatorial rule. Animals were outside creatures which have to serve a useful purpose. Bella is twelve years old, so I was out of university when I got to know her. One of the bitches in our kennels produced this single chocolate one amongst a litter of blacks- a genetic rarity. Mycroft wanted to get rid of her- didn't think she'd be any good. Chocolate Labs have a reputation for being manic and disobedient. Perhaps that's why I liked her. I insisted she be kept, and when I came down for shooting, I always took her with me on the peg. Turned out to be an amazing retriever. She's smarter than a lot of the in-bred black dogs, all thin and racy with not a lot in their brains. On other trips outside of the shooting season, I took her with me when I went walking in the grounds. I like Bella's company; she seems to like mine. She's very good at her job, doesn't talk, but does think. My kind of female."

John smiled at that. He watched the old dog clamber up a little stiff legged the three flights of stairs to Sherlock's room. When he opened his bedroom door, Bella went it and then put her front paws up on his bed. Sherlock bent down to lift her rear end so she could get onto it properly, and then she settled down like she was born to share a bed with him.  _She might well be the only female he'd ever have there._

John pulled the hard chair out from the lab bench against the wall. "Ok, before I call it a night, I need a quick briefing from you about tomorrow. What's it all about, what am I expected to do and how is it going to work?"

Sherlock propped himself up on the bed, leaning against the wall, while Bella shuffled over until her head was in his lap. He absent-mindedly rubbed her ears, and John watched the dog's eyes close in bliss. "Well- it's an all-day shoot, to start with. Some corporate shoots are just a half day, but this one is a proper one. There will be eight guns in the line. The guests will for the most part just accompany the gun they have come with. In your case, you'll be my loader. I'll get my usual loader, Nik Green, to show you the ropes tomorrow morning, just after breakfast. Plan for an early start.

"Breakfast is available in the same place you had supper tonight; it's a buffet and ready from 7.30. I won't be there; can't eat when I am shooting, slows me down. Green normally loads for Mycroft, who shoots at least half the dates available in the season, unless there's some sort of crisis on. Nik's good, so a half hour's tuition should do. The beaters and pickers up will gather by 9. Briefing the guns takes place about 9.15, and we'll load up in the Landrovers and leave for the first drive by 9.30."

John just about followed. "A drive is where the guns are positioned, and the beaters 'drive' the game towards the guns?" He'd done some preparatory reading, but a lot had gone over his head.

"Yes. Our beaters with their spaniels will be driven by truck where they are dropped off at the right place- sometimes it's quite a distance away, while on other drives it could be as short as 800 meters or so; it depends on the lie of the land. Then they walk forward towards where the guns are standing in a line. The dogs flush the game up at a steady pace and as they fly over, the guns attempt to shoot them. Really straight forward."

"You make it sound easier than it is, I bet. Small moving targets aren't simple to hit."

"A pheasant can be difficult, depending on the speed and height that they fly, especially if there is a tail wind. But, they are easier than partridge, which are much smaller and really quick, or woodcock, which are tiny and don't fly straight- they duck, dive and take evasive action."

"Just what does a 'loader' do? The outfitter said I would get warm."

Sherlock smirked. "That depends on the person with whom you are working. To maximise the shooting, the person on the gun line can take two weapons. While he shoots with one, the loader gets the cartridges into the next gun, so as soon as one is fired, it can be swapped for a loaded weapon. If you have to eject cartridges and re-load yourself, you can miss a lot of birds going over. If you are with someone who is a good shot, then you will certainly be kept busy. Actually, come to think of it, a horrible shot is just as likely to be banging away both barrels like mad, so a loader will be busy, too- just have a lot fewer birds to show for it."

"Where does the Labrador come into the picture, if the beaters are using spaniels to flush the game?"

"Bella's past it now, but in her heyday, she sat with me on the peg, and when I shot a bird, she'd mark where it had fallen. Then when I gave the command after the shooting is over, she'd retrieve them- from wherever they fell- even in dense cover. There will be other Labs there in a line behind the guns; they are the pickers up. Once the drive is over, then they get sent after the fallen birds not recovered by the peg dogs. Often enough, the pickers up get left behind when everyone moves onto the next drive, just to be sure to find every shot bird. I prefer to have dogs working with me, so they get good at spotting where my birds fall."

He patted Bella on the head and she rolled over, putting her belly up to be rubbed. "She was amazing. It's what they are bred for, and if trained well, and with someone who appreciates them, then it is wonderful to watch them at work. Well, I say  _work_ , but for her it was pure pleasure. I have never, ever forgiven what Mycroft did to her."

John looked down at the dog, now lying flat on her back with her paws curled in ecstasy as he rubbed. "What?" He couldn't imagine Mycroft being cruel to a dog. It just wouldn't sit with those impeccable manners of his.

"While I was…otherwise engaged, he had her spayed. I accused him of ethnic cleansing. He claimed he didn't want to 'spoil the Parham breeding pool'. It's a matter of principle- I favour genetic diversity, it occasionally throws up such amazingly gifted oddities. Well, I would, wouldn't I? We don't all conform to expectations."

John looked at the sight of Sherlock stroking the dog's belly. From his description, it wasn't just the dog that enjoyed the whole shooting experience; Sherlock clearly reciprocated the feeling- and that was interesting. Apart from the detective work, the violin and his experiments, Sherlock had not shown any other interests that could be called a passion- until now. The doctor went to bed looking forward to the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell that I have my own version of Bella? I work as a beater on a local pheasant shoot on eight Saturdays from the end of October to the end of January. So, this is a story that will have a high degree of accuracy when it comes to this kind of shooting- just not what happened up in Kentish Town. That type of shooting party is a figment of my imagination....


	13. Chapter 13

He was back in Afghanistan, and he'd been woken by the sound of a helicopter bringing in fresh casualties. As instinct and training kicked in, he went from sound asleep to fully awake in seconds. Adrenaline shot into his system and brought him up to a sitting position before he even got his eyes open.

When he did open his eyes, reality crashed in. The room was unfamiliar, dark and so definitely  _not_  Afghanistan that it shocked him for a moment. But the sound of a helicopter was definitely there. Like a GPS signal, John acquired his sense of place- Parham House, and that must be one of the last guests arriving to join the shooting party. A glance at his alarm clock by the bed showed digital red numbers of 6.48am.  _Someone likes an early start._

He slipped on his dressing gown and padded over to the window, opening the curtains. Still dark- the sun would be rising soon, but not yet. He couldn't see the copter, but heard it landing some distance away, and then the motor being cut. It wasn't worth going back to bed, so he went into the bathroom. He knocked once on the door into Sherlock's room, wondering if Bella would need to be let out. No reply, so he opened it and peered in. The room was empty, the bed made- clearly Sherlock had left even earlier.

A half hour later, washed, brushed and dressed in his new kit, he went down to breakfast, and found a room half full of people, three of whom he had not met the night before. Over a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon, he introduced himself to a woman in her late forties, with short dark hair showing a salt and pepper dusting of silver. He discovered that Mrs Elizabeth Ffoukes came on her own; no husband was mentioned. Her attire showed she was going to be shooting- and the jacket and breeks she wore were not new, unlike his. However, any self-consciousness that John might have had about the newness of his clothing was dispelled by the sight of the other two young men who had just arrived, both of whom were in brand new gear that looked like it had just stepped out of a fashion shoot – a rich man's idea of what was right for such an occasion.

Mrs Ffoukes wanted to know about his time in Afghanistan, so he answered her questions as he ate quickly. Half his mind was not on the conversation, but rather wondering where Sherlock was. He needed to get that tuition about loading before things got underway. As he made his excuses to Mrs Ffoukes and stood up, his plate was whisked away by a waiter, but before he could leave Mycroft beckoned him over to the two young men he had not yet met.

"Your Highness, may I introduce Captain John Watson, an army surgeon now retired from active service? John, this is His Royal Highness, Prince Rashid al Mohammed Al Maktoum, from Dubai, and his aide, Mister Razi al Farki. Now gentlemen, I have to leave you to your own devices- duty calls. We will assemble in the courtyard across the drive at 9.15." And with that, he left John with the two young Arab men.

 _Bloody hell- royalty._  For a split second, John wondered what on earth he was supposed to do- offer to shake hands, or bow, or what? The young Arab prince gave a slightly inscrutable smile and then nodded. "A pleasure to meet you, Captain Watson." He nodded back, and kept his hands behind him in a parade rest position.

"Have you been here before on a shoot?" This question came from the taller man, the aide.

"No. This is my first time. In fact, it is my first time ever on a pheasant shoot, so I am looking forward to the occasion. And you two?"

The prince smiled. "Well, I have enjoyed game shooting since I was a boy- but desert conditions are rather different. I was lucky enough to make friends at Eton with people who have shooting estates here in England and Scotland." He leaned in a little conspiratorially, while keeping an eye on Mycroft's retreating figure. "Always wanted an invitation to Parham- but, you know, the owner is a little secretive, and a chance to shoot here? Well, I never thought I would rate it." It was a gentle tease, in part at his own expense. His aide was trying to control a smirk, without much success.

"So, are you here then as a guest of one of the guns?" The Prince was doing that oh-so-polite game of trying to figure out why John would be invited, given the fact that he was clearly not going to be shooting. He might be from Dubai, but clearly he'd learned his manners in the drawing rooms of upper class England.

"I'm the guest of, and the loader, for Sherlock Holmes. And I need some help on that, so will have to leave you two gentlemen shortly, if I am to get any idea of what I am supposed to be doing."

The aide nodded. "I am his Royal Highness's loader- and he is such a good shot that he keeps me very busy. If I can offer you any pointers on the role, please do not hesitate to ask."

John could see over the Prince's shoulder that both the Brigadier General Berrisford and Sir Martin Whetle were watching the Arabs. Their wives were deep in conversation over their coffee and Danish pastries; as he passed the table John could hear something about grandchildren and exorbitant school fees being discussed. Mrs Ffoukes was talking with the American defence contractor and his sister, but they were at the other end of the table, too far away for him to hear the conversation topic. That made him wonder what Sherlock would make of the new comers.  _Where is he?_  Not for the first time on the trip, John wondered why Sherlock was making himself scarce.

He made his excuses and departed, just as Lady Caroline and her daughter arrived for breakfast. The teenager's scowl was still in place. She wore a short tartan plaid kilt and a matching jacket; her mother's outfit was similarly classic and enhanced her figure. The two adults exchanged 'good mornings' as Arabella just pushed past the doctor and into the dining room. Lady Caroline rolled her eyes at her daughter's behaviour. "Teenagers- I regret that good manners do not come as pre-loaded software. Apologies, Doctor Watson."

He tried to control his grin. "At least she showed up. I still haven't seen Sherlock this morning- and I'm off now to see if I can find him." That made the Countess smile and reply "From what I hear about him and shooting, he will definitely turn up, Doctor. See you later."

John wandered out the front door- and headed for the courtyard across the drive. Through the archway under the square clock tower, he could see a collection of men, Landrovers, and dogs- a swirl of spaniels and Labradors. As he joined the throng, he saw a tall, thin middle-aged man with a clipboard talking to the people that John assumed were the beaters. Dressed in waxed cotton jackets and waterproof trousers, the men's clothes looked ready for rough terrain- patches and torn bits ripped by brambles went with the worn and weathered flat caps and muddy wellies. The man with the clipboard was calling out in a jovial tone- "Come on, lads. Won't anyone but me say he's going to set a new record? I don't want to take all of your money." One of the big lads responded. "It's been six years, Nik; he's got to have  _some_ practice."

"Hah! That's not how he shoots, Robbie. You know that as well as I do. Remember that widgeon off the Wassel Pond? You telling me that was the result of practice?"

John felt a hand on his elbow and turned to see Frank Wallace. "Just in time; I need to get you sorted with Sherlock's guns and ammunition. Then I'll introduce you to Nik. Follow me."

"Have you seen Sherlock this morning?" John tried to make it sound casual, but he was concerned.

Wallace nodded; "he headed out at first light with Bella. Wants to get an idea of the drives we are doing- where the birds are and their condition. He knows the estate better than the streets of London- but it has been six years, so he won't want any surprises. Don't worry- he'll show up in time. Now that he's here, nothing will stop him from the shooting."

"Is he good at it?"

That made the Gamekeeper stop and turn to look at John. "Aye, you could say that." Then he looked away for a moment, as if remembering something. "I taught him how when he was twelve years old." Then he strode off. John followed him into one of the Georgian buildings and down a corridor to a door that Wallace unlocked, using a fingerprint key pad. "The Gun Room," he explained.

It was a box of a room, with one window that had a wire mesh security screen welded in place. Around three walls were locked metal cupboards. On the fourth wall there was a wooden gun cabinet, with space for six guns, but only three were left in it. The Scot used his keys to open it.

"These are Sherlock's Purdeys. They were his mother's, made for her. He won't let his brother use them; his Lordship got his father's guns. They're good- but not a patch on these." He handed John one of the 12 bore side-by-sides. The gamekeeper then opened one of the metal cabinets and pulled out a pair of leather gun slips. John watched as Wallace slid the second gun into the sleeve, and then attempted to do the same with his own. He fumbled it a bit, and grabbed to stop it slipping onto the floor. The Gamekeeper's eyes widened a bit. "Just take it slow; you don't want to drop one of these."

"Worth something then?" John slid the strap over his right shoulder and felt the five pounds' weight of the weapon pull. Wallace slipped the second gun in its sleeve over the doctor's other shoulder.

"Aye. If these were ever put up for sale, you'd need more than two hundred and seventy five thousand pounds to buy the pair. His brother's pair is only worth half as much."

As John felt the weight of the second gun pulling on his bad shoulder, he tried to understand how a weapon could cost more than the average price of a three bedroomed house in the UK. "How is that even possible?" he murmured.

Wallace nodded. "Well- it seems a ridiculous sum, given that you can get a cheap gun for less than five hundred pounds. Just think of these as a Formula 1 supercar compared to a clapped out Ford escort; there's a reason for the price differential. These are custom-made to fit the owner, hand engraved and take over a year to construct; then there's the Purdey engineering- that's unique and fiendishly complicated, so much so that no other gun company even tries. Perfectly balanced, and in immaculate condition. Worth a king's ransom. I'll bet that Arab prince will just drool at the sight of them."

He grinned. "But, they'll never come up for sale. I think Sherlock would sell the clothes off his back and walk naked before parting with them. The guns and that violin of hers- that's all he really wanted from her inheritance."

 _Oh, the violin was his mother's._ Another jigsaw piece slipped into place.

The gamekeeper pulled a cartridge bag from the same cabinet where the gun slips had been, and then unlocked another cabinet and pulled out five boxes of shotgun cartridges. He dumped two boxes into the main compartment in the cartridge bag, and slipped a dozen or so from the other box into the pocket on the outside of the bag. Then he filled the bellows pockets on John's jacket. "Don't get them confused. You're left handed, so right pocket for red, left pocket for blue. He'll be shooting the red ones mostly today. But if we see duck for any reason, load the blues. Duck feathers are the very devil to get through- and we don't use lead over the lakes anymore."

He handed the cartridge bag to John and then led him toward the door. The gamekeeper looked up just as he left the room and nodded. John followed his line of sight and spotted the discrete camera. Wallace explained, "Security is pretty tight around here; when you have heads of state and the like, you need the protection."

John wondered whether there would be protection like that today; if so, it was being very discrete. Wallace pulled the door to, and John heard the click of an electronic lock. "The estate has a dedicated security team on site, but the Prince has his own bodyguards; you'll see them on the drives, and he will be travelling in his own Landrover- armoured. Heaven forbid anything should happen to him or any of the other guests."

Then they were out in the courtyard, and the crowd had grown even more in size. Wallace led him over to the man with the clipboard.

"Nik, this is John Watson. He's going to be loading for Sherlock today. John, this is Nik Green. He manages the Peckham Grove farm on the estate."

The friendly expression on the man's face froze as he heard the Scotsman's second sentence. The smile was replaced by a frown of disappointment. "I thought I was his loader."

Wallace shook his head. "Sherlock's choice, Nik. His lordship will be delighted to have you with him as usual."

The thin man's face betrayed what he thought of that.

The Gamekeeper continued, "And I need you to show Watson what's involved. Sherlock asked me to ask you to give him some pointers. You know what he needs and what he likes, so you've got about twenty minutes. If you take him over to Sycamore Grove, you'll have some privacy there."

"Great. Not only do I lose the opportunity, but he rubs my nose it by getting me to teach someone else. Bloody hell; he is  _infuriating_."

John felt distinctly awkward as the tall man stormed off, without a backward glance. As he passed the open door of the nearest Landrover, Green tossed the clipboard into the back. "Come on," he growled, and John threw a glance at Wallace.

"Och, he'll get over it. He's probably bet a packet that Sherlock will beat his own record today, and thinks that if he isn't loading, that will make a difference. Don't let him get to you. Once he cools down, he will be OK."

John hoped so. He never liked making enemies.  _Sherlock has enough of those to go around._


	14. Chapter 14

John hurried after the tall man, as he went through an arch opposite the clock tower, then took a sharp left along a path. The doctor had to break into a trot to catch up with him, which wasn't easy, given what he was carrying.

By the time he managed to do so, Nik Green was half way across a field heading for an enormous Sycamore tree, alongside what John could swear was a cricket pitch, complete with pavilion. The morning sun was burning off the mist over the lawns. The wind was beginning to pick up, too. On his left, he could now appreciate the side of the grey stone house that he had not seen last night. If anything, it was even more impressive when John could see it in the context of its location. To his right and behind him, he could see a lake. In front of him, the hills rose to form a natural amphitheatre embracing the house.

As he caught up with the tall man, John tried not to pant as he spoke. "Look, I'm sorry, Mister Green. I had no idea that you were going to be displaced when Sherlock told me I was to load for him. If it's important to you, I will tell him that I'd rather you did it."

That made Green turn and face him. "It's not for me to say; it's Sherlock's choice. It's just that…well, I've waited six long years for him to come back, and I won't deny that it's disappointing not to be working with him again. But, he is…what he is. And if he wants you to load, then, by God, you're going to do it. So listen carefully."

John slipped the two guns off his shoulder and the cartridge bag. "I'm listening."

"Right. How much shooting have you done yourself?"

"None. Well, apart from on afternoon on a farm when I was a kid."

Green closed his eyes in a kind of silent despair. "Wonderful. This is going to be a farce. You're going to be loading for one of the fastest, best shots in the county and you don't even know how to open a shotgun, do you?"

"Show me." John's determined tone of voice made the other man look more closely at him. And then the lesson began. He was shown how to break the gun open to expose the twin barrels, how to grab two cartridges out of his pocket with three fingers of one hand and to load them, then snap the weapon back together.

"Now let me show you where to stand. I'm the gun." Green took the other Purdey and stood, gesturing John to stand to the left and two paces behind him. "At least you're short; you won't have to duck when he tracks a bird moving to the left behind him." He mimicked the movement, putting the gun into his shoulder and swinging it around to his left, aiming high above John's head.

"Have you got earplugs? Sherlock wears heavy ear defenders- the noise can bother him, but you need to hear what he's saying, so just use plugs rather than the ear muffs."

John reached into the right chest pocket of the jacket and pulled out the ear plugs he'd found there- courtesy of Reginald from William Evans. He pushed them in place.

"Right. Can you still hear me?"

John nodded.

"What happens next is that Sherlock will track a bird and shoot. When he hits it using the first barrel, you wait for him to sight and shoot at a second bird. He does miss occasionally with the first and will fire both barrels. In either case, as soon as you hear the second barrel, take the safety off your gun, put it in your left hand and position it like this." Nik balanced the gun, with the barrel pointing skywards, holding it so that the stock could be taken by the person to whom he would be handing it.

"You have to take the empty weapon from him, and replace it immediately with the loaded weapon. He's got his eye on the birds, so he won't be looking at you, but you don't take your eyes off of him. He will just reach back. He won't look back; he'll keep his eyes on the trees. Try it- let's just do a half dozen hand offs."

By the last of the six swaps, John was getting the hang of it a bit better.

"Now it gets complicated. As soon as you take possession of the weapon that has been fired, you need to eject the cartridges and reload. And that's what takes time and practice to get right. Ideally, you need to be able to do it without really looking at it, because your eyes should be on him. Use your peripheral vision as best you can, so you don't lose track of where he is and what he is doing." He showed John how to eject the cartridges, turning the weapon so that the empty plastic and metal casings came out cleanly, and then re-loaded with fresh cartridges in one fluid movement, snapping the barrel back together and slipping the safety off. "It's against usual practice; loaders are always told to leave the safety on; but Sherlock wants it  _off_. You'll make the mistake once, and he will bite your head off when he misses a bird because of it."

"Another tip- don't watch the birds. If you try to see whether he's hit the bird or not, you'll be too slow. As soon as he fires, he  _knows_  whether he's hit the bird or not. That's the weird thing about him. He does it all through trajectories and maths- I don't get it, but it works for him, and makes him better than anyone else I've ever seen shooting. If only he wanted to shoot regularly or competitively, he'd be an international competitor. Instead he shoots once a year- or less, given he hasn't been here for six years. But that won't make a blind bit of difference to how well he shoots today. He's so totally focused on it that nothing else matters. It's …kind of scary the first time you see it."

John thought about that and nodded. "He's like that when he's focused on a case."

Nik Green turned to him, as if seeing him for the first time. "You're that blogger bloke- the one who writes about his work."

John nodded.

"Oh." Then Nik nodded. "I guess that makes sense. You work with him every day. He must think you'll be able to understand what he needs." Then the taller man caught sight of something over John's shoulder. "Speak of the devil."

John turned to see Sherlock, with Bella in tow, coming across the field from the trees that surrounded the little church.

Sherlock was wearing breeks; the green shooting jacket that had seen better days was unzipped, revealing a scruffy green sweater underneath. The mud on his leather boots was fresh- and matched by the mud on Bella.

"Been getting the lie of the land again?" was Nik's friendly greeting, which Sherlock answered with a nod.

"All right?" Sherlock's question was aimed at John, who gave a smile before adding, "But, I won't be as good or fast as Nik would be, so if that's important, I am happy to stand down and watch."

"Don't be absurd, John. You'll hardly learn anything sitting on the side-lines. Have you actually fired a gun yet? I didn't hear anything."

Nik shook his head. "Not yet, was just getting to that."

"Right- I'll show you once with Nik, and then you can swap and try it. The noise can be a bit disconcerting. Bella- sit and stay."

Sherlock took the gun from John, who stepped aside to watch. Sherlock pulled a pair of ear defenders from his pocket and slipped them on, stuffing his flat cap into the same pocket. He checked the weapon was loaded, then clicked the safety off, giving it a scowl. Then he took his stance, shotgun in tight against his right shoulder. Nik stood two paces behind and one pace to the left, waiting. Sherlock took aim at the top of the sycamore tree ahead of them.

_BANG!_

It was louder than John had anticipated, and he flinched slightly. The second bang, almost immediately after, was followed by Nik taking a step forward to take the empty gun was it was handed back to him, replacing it with the loaded gun in one smooth movement. Sherlock had it back into his shoulder a second later, and fired the first barrel. In the meantime, Nik broke the gun open and the cartridge cases automatically ejected. Inserting two fresh ones, he managed to get it shut again just as Sherlock fired the second barrel, and the process happened started over again.

Sherlock turned to John. "Is the noise too much? I know you were used to hearing gunfire in the army, but it's a different sound and I wouldn't want it to cause you any problems." John realised that Sherlock was probably referring obliquely to his PTSD, but in a way that Nik Green wouldn't get the reference.

"If I thought it would be a problem, I wouldn't have agreed, Sherlock. Let me have a go."

He practiced the swap twice. The second time, he forgot to click the safety off. There was the sound of a click when John expected a bang, and then Sherlock looked back at him. "The gun safety goes on automatically when you close the breech, so click it off manually before you hand it over." It was practical advice, rather than 'having his head bitten off', and John wondered what the difference was between now and six years ago that had made a change for the better.

Then Nik reminded them of the time and they walked back to the courtyard, which was now full of people. The beaters were all piling into a couple of trucks with bench seats around the sides, the spaniels were jumping in as well, and then a third truck with a trailer on it loaded up with labs and pickers up, before trundling out of the courtyard in convoy.

Wallace caught Sherlock's eye and came over to him, with two field cockers at his heels. "I'll take Cleo with me- that's the black cocker; you get Rollo. I'll show you why. He stopped and the two spaniels sat obediently, looking up. "Cleo- find the pheasant!" gesturing ahead of him. The black one tore off, quartering the ground in front of her, nose to the ground- first one direction to the right, then back toward the left, but each time moving the hunt further away from Wallace. About thirty seconds later Wallace gave two short peeps on his whistle. A good fifty meters out, Cleo looked up and he called her in.

Once she was sat beside him again, Wallace grinned. "Now watch. Rollo- find the pheasant!" He gestured ahead, to the same ground that Cleo had just searched. The dog didn't move. He just looked in the direction that Wallace had pointed, and then back up at the Gamekeeper. His lip actually curled.

Sherlock started to smile. Wallace then pointed off to the left- away from where Cleo had worked, and Rollo shot off, covering the ground much faster than Cleo had. By now Sherlock was smiling. "Wallace- I would never have believed it- you've managed to breed a cocker with a brain."

John looked puzzled. Sherlock turned and explained. "Why should he go over the same ground that Cleo had just searched? He's smart enough to know better. Ninety nine out of hundred cocker spaniels would have done what was asked of them, even if they knew it was pointless."

"Aye- Rollo has an attitude problem. Thinks he's smarter than any beater alive, and that's why we keep him just for the peg. You'll get on famously."

Then Mycroft called the guns together and began the briefing.

"There will be two drives and then a break for coffee, then another two before lunch, which will be set up out in the park, and then two more after that, assuming the light and weather hold. The drives are all different, involving different ground. Some will be in open fields, a couple are in the woods and that makes the shooting much more challenging, as you have only seconds to snap a shot off before they are back into cover again. The land rises to the south of the house, giving some fine high birds. And there's a bit of heathland too- so we should be able to get a walk up drive for partridge after lunch. "

"Gentlemen and ladies who are shooting, I must remind you of the rules. No ground game of any kind, even if a fox is brazen enough to walk in front of you. Shoot only when you can see sky, and can get a clean shot. Pick up all spent cartridges. One short blast on the whistle to start the beaters off. When the beaters are all out, I will use the whistle again- two short blasts means the drive is over, so break your guns immediately. If we have to stop for any reason in the middle, three longer blasts. Once you are on your peg, you are able to shoot, so don't wait for the whistle if a good target presents itself."

"Please draw your peg numbers." He fanned out a set of eight cards, and offered Elizabeth Ffoukes the first choice, then the Prince. The Brigadier chose next. Sir Martin was followed by the American Ashton, then Wills, the banker. Mycroft took one of the last two cards- number 4, and handed Sherlock the last one- number 8.

The guns and their guests were divided up and assigned a Landrover. The prince had his own, with his aide, and two rather self-conscious looking bodyguards. Elizabeth, Lady Caroline and Arabella went with Mycroft and Nik Green; two black labs were put into the back. The Ashton siblings shared with Sarah Barnard and David Wills, Sir Martin Whetle and his wife were joined by the Brigadier and his wife in another- both driven by Parham staff.

Frank Wallace took Sherlock and John in his own Landrover, and put three dogs in the back. He hoisted Bella in, and then the pair of cockers. As he got into the driver's seat, he said. "I haven't the heart to leave her behind, but I will keep her in the car. Be prepared, though, for a lot of whining and the mother of all sulks- I'll bet you she won't touch a bit of her supper tonight."

Not for the first time, John thought of how Bella and Sherlock were in tune with one another. Deprive them of their pleasures, and you got similar reactions.


	15. Chapter 15

"First drive is Springhead Hill." Wallace's cheery voice came over from the driver's seat.  _He's in his element._  John wondered what a gamekeeper got up to when it wasn't shooting season.

As the Landrover bumped over the rutted track, Sherlock and John were seated side by side on the back seats- which were now tightly covered in close-fitting thick plastic sheeting, ready for the muck and mud now, instead of what they'd sat on when Wallace picked them up at the station.

"John. Tell me about the new guests- the middle aged woman is interesting; I have a strange feeling about her."

"She introduced herself this morning over breakfast. She was on the helicopter- which might mean she has some connection with the Arabs." He thought for a moment. "Ffoukes. Elizabeth's her first name."

The effect on Sherlock was instantaneous. "OH! How very interesting. Hmm; actually John, the transport was probably hers, and she invited the Arabs, not the other way around."

John looked at him more closely, as the Landrover slipped a bit on the muddy track. "Why is she interesting? She seemed perfectly ordinary, asked me about Afghanistan. Who is she?"

Sherlock smirked. "You were having an innocent chat over a plate of bacon and eggs with the Head of MI6, John."

Now it was John's turn to be startled. "You could have fooled me. I mean, um, your brother exudes secrecy and all that stuff, despite his protestations that he is a 'minor official in the British Government.' But, Mrs Ffoukes seemed so…pleasant, kind of… ordinary."

"Don't you believe it, John. She is reputed to have one of the sharpest analytical minds in the business. She keeps up with Mycroft, according to him. Wish I could say the same about the Head of MI5, but he's out of his depth. I've meet him before- very unintelligent for someone in intelligence. But I've not met her before, should be interesting."

John looked out of the window, watching the deer park's inhabitants. They seemed unfazed by the Landrovers proceeding through the landscaped park. "What kind of deer are those?"

Wallace was the one who answered. "A mixture- mostly Fallow, but we also introduced some Reds a couple of years ago. And unfortunately, we've also got a plague of muntjacs- but you won't see them in the deer park. They've managed to establish a population in the scrub land near the River Arun. Unfortunately, they breed like rabbits. The only good thing about them is that they taste good, so we cull as many as we can every year."

John glanced over at Sherlock who had put his hands together under his chin- and his eyes were not focused on anything inside the car. He sighed- the consulting detective was hard at work trying to figure out more about the guest list. Then his flatmate muttered, "the Arab- royalty, by the number of personal bodyguards. Who is he?"

John tried to remember the man's name in full- and couldn't. "It was a load of first names, one of which was Mohammed, but the last name is the one that really matters- Al Mahktoum."

Sherlock nodded. "Dubai. Interesting. He's under thirty, so the son of a son. Wealthy but not powerful, at that age. Possibly got a powerful father, though." John watched as Sherlock slipped effortlessly back into consulting detective mode.

"You're here to hunt for game birds, Sherlock. Not solve a non-existent case by deducing who each of the guests is and why Mycroft might have invited them."

"Don't be a spoilsport, John. It's possible to do both. You are the one who always says I need to learn how to multi-task. So, between drives, I will occupy my mind with trying to figure out what's annoying Mycroft- and I suspect that Elizabeth Ffoukes is somehow involved in that."

"That was last night. He seems fine this morning."

Sherlock snorted. "He's just loves playing Lord of the Manor. Underneath all that bonhomie is someone whose nose is out of joint. I am going to have fun figuring out why."

The conga line of Landrovers reached the estate wall and another metal security gate. This one was more ruthlessly modern, complete with razor wire on top. The high stone wall extended as far as John could see to the left- and on the right it went towards a modern farm in the distance. Two meters in from the stone wall was another metal fence- this one looked even more formidable.

Sherlock saw it and the security camera on the gates to the road, and his face registered his disgust. "It used to be a deer fence, now he's turned the place into a prison camp."

John shrugged. "If you're going to use the place for top secret conferences, or have the Queen for dinner, then I don't see how you can avoid this sort of security."

"Well, at least across the road, it won't be that way. The National Park authorities impose sensible restrictions on landowners, so even Mycroft can't wreck it with stalag style fencing."

The gates slowly opened and the cars went across the main road onto a single lane road heading up. Above them, rose a massive line of hills. Sherlock saw John's surprise at how steeply rising the ground was. "Behold the South Downs, John. The ridge line is at nearly 200 meters. This is the eastern escarpment of the Amberley Mount. There are traces of Iron Age settlements up there."

Wallace kept his eyes on the cars in front, but chipped in. "The estate owns the land right up to the ridge- in one place it even goes down the other side to Rackham Farm. To the west of the house, the estate land goes all the way to the River Arun, although a lot of that land is not usable for arable crops- too boggy. Most of the farmland outside the stone walls, to the south and east are Parham, too; the parish boundary is pretty much the whole of the estate. The Viscountess gave a lot of the land north of the wall to the RSPB for the bird reserve. Both villages- Rackham and Cootham are mostly estate-owned, too."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Feudal landlord- suits Mycroft to a T; he's even got vassels."

From the front seat came a comment. "I think he's got most of his attention on the day job, Sherlock. Not fair to be  _too_  hard on your brother. He's been sensible about the estate, and you won't find any of us complaining." John found it refreshing that Wallace would be defending Mycroft.

The lead Landrover swung off the lane into the field below the trees. Stubble and brown earth proved no barrier to the cars and their four-wheel drive, and they queued to park next to a growing line of SUVs. Already ahead of them, John could see people waiting in a line strung out across the field, accompanied mostly by black labs. Wallace explained. "The pickers up- dropped off here, while the beaters trucks went onto the summit. The beaters then line up in the woods at the top of the ridge. The gun line is over there." He took one hand off the wheel to gesture closer to the bottom of the wooded hill. In the distance, John could see a line of chest high poles pushed into the earth- a quick count showed there were eight.

"So, those are the pegs."

"Aye, and Sherlock's is the furthest to the left- number eight. Usually a bad position, but it's less so on this drive, because the hill wraps around it a bit. I've sent James and a pair of the best springers to blank in from the area near the pit."

John looked puzzled. "Pit? What kind of mining is done around here?"

Sherlock shook his head. "A disused chalk pit, John. The Downs are littered with them. Probably last worked by the estate in the mid-nineteenth century. The chalk was used as a building material for the estate workers' houses - flint and chalk- the medieval equivalent of today's cement, block and render."

They piled out of the car, and John slipped one of the gun sleeves over his right shoulder and the cartridge bag, while Sherlock took the other. Wallace opened the back, with a very stern "SIT" command, then put slip leads on the two cockers. "Bella, stay." The two cockers jumped out, and the Scot shut the back door again. Within seconds, John could hear a piercing whine. "QUIET!" Wallace gave the command some sternness in the tone, and silence fell. Wallace then said to the two men, "Well, duty calls. Catch up with you after the drive." He headed off to where the rest of the guns were taking their positions, loaders close to hand, guests further back.

Sherlock slipped the dog whistle on its lanyard over his head and put Rollo on the lead, taking him and John to the far peg marked with a painted white 8 on it. He dropped the lead's loop over the hazel pole, and bent over from his considerable height to get the dog's eyes focused on him. "Rollo. Pay attention, do your job and, if you whine, you'll be joining Bella in the car- game over. Got that?" It was a firm commanding tone, and the dog virtually snapped to attention.

John tried not to laugh. "Don't you wish that tone worked with the Yard?"

"Hmm; would be handy, wouldn't it? Mind you, I'd rather leave Anderson in the back of the police van, but the whining would probably drive everyone crazy." John tried not to giggle at the thought of it. Sherlock had put his ear defenders on and was looking up at the hills to the front and the left of him. There was a natural bend in the ridge that brought the hills around to his left, and his eyes were scanning the trees as he slipped the Purdey out of the gun sleeve. John did the same, working his earplugs in, too. Sherlock then turned and grabbed a few red cartridges from the bag, loading two and putting the rest in his pocket. John mirrored his actions, loading the second gun, and then stood behind him and to the left.

"Make sure the safety is off, John." The baritone was not quite as stern as it had been with the spaniel, but the doctor mentally kicked himself, and slipped the engraved steel lever to the side. He watched Sherlock, whose whole attention was focused on the trees. Glancing to his right, John could see that the other guns were now in position, and he heard a long single whistle blast from Mycroft, who was on the peg in the middle. Lady Caroline and Arabella were behind him; the teenage was petting one of the two black labs. John could see Lady Margaret Whetle behind her husband on the third peg. She was frowning at the sight of the teenager. _Probably thinks that gun dogs shouldn't be petted._

_BANG!_

John flinched and snapped his head around as he realised that Sherlock had fired. He watched as a flock of woodpigeons exploded from the woods, halfway up the hill. The shot bird plummeted in a cloud of grey and white feathers, to thump onto the stubble, some two hundred meters in front of them.

Sherlock was speaking to him, but he did not shift his glance from the hills. "Woodpigeon- always first out of the trees. Very skittish, so the slightest noise by a beater sets them off. A real pest because they destroy brassica field crops; luckily, very tasty eating, too." As the rest of the pigeons scattered high and fast across the line of guns, there were some shots as they passed overhead, but nothing fell.

Then there was a lull. A gust of icy wind caught John, and he wondered how long it would be before his hands started to really feel the cold. He noticed that Sherlock was not wearing gloves. He knew that William Evans had provided a pair, which were in an inside pocket. Should he put them on?

Before he had a chance to decide, the first pheasants popped out of the trees. Unlike the pigeons, these flew straight, and slower, wings whirring loud enough that he could even hear them through the earplugs. The birds came out far to their right- between where the Dubai prince was on peg number two and the American on the first peg. John wondered who would take the shot.

Three bangs came so close together that it was hard to know who had fired what. The bird in the lead of the three seemed to stagger, but flapped on. Then another barrel went off, and it dropped, gliding to the ground just beyond the pickers up. Already the Prince had swapped guns with his aide, and he tracked the other three birds now behind him. Both barrels were fired in rapid succession, and one of the birds plummeted from the sky. Ashton had no loader, his sister Barbara was watching with interest as he reloaded his weapon.

Then more birds came rapidly into the middle guns' range. On one side of Mycroft was Mrs Ffoukes, on the other was Sir Martin. They could take their pick as at least ten birds broke from the trees and passed high over them. Gunfire broke out, and birds started dropping.

"John. Stop watching  _them_."

He snapped his head around to fix his eyes on Sherlock again, who had put his Purdey into his shoulder.

A pheasant fell some fifty feet in front of Sherlock, and John found his attention distracted by Rollo, who was now quivering with excitement. But, he didn't lose focus completely, so was able to notice that Sherlock was handing behind him the shotgun. He grabbed at it and replaced it with the loaded one from his left hand. Then it was down to business. He had to look down to get the cartridges out of his pockets and into his fingers, as he broke the gun open and two hot shells ejected with a whiff of cordite and smoke. He slapped the two new cartridges in, but had not managed to get it shut before he heard another double bang. He glanced up at Sherlock who had taken two birds, but this time, they had come from the part of the woods to the side rather than the front. John just remembered to lever the safety off before handing it rather clumsily to Sherlock and take the gun he had just fired. He felt all thumbs- his cold fingers fumbling at the lever that broke open the barrels and the spent cartridges shot out of the chamber. He found the second pair of cartridges and shoved them in, snapping the barrel back together and hitting the safety lever in one movement.

Just in time, as another group of pheasants broke free of the trees at the far right. Sensing the guns in front, these birds came out heading north, but then immediately veered off to the east, flying down the line, but gaining height with each wing-beat. Gunshots erupted, and birds came tumbling out of the sky. The last pair seemed to be charmed, flying right by the double barrels going off as first Sir Martin and then Elizabeth fired and missed. They were flying very high now, and David Wills missed, as did the Brigadier. The two pheasants were now separated by some four meters, and John watched as they came in line with the eighth peg.

There was a double bang in front of the doctor. Even before John saw the birds falter and then fall, Sherlock handed back the empty gun. John swapped it for the loaded one and got to work again. He actually heard the thump of the dead pheasants hitting the ground in front of them, and the Brigadier General called out, "Shot!" in an approving tone. John could only agree as he snapped the breech back together and thumbed off the safety.

The next seven minutes passed in a haze of gunfire, ejecting shells, and cold fingers. There was a brief lull toward the end, when John's attention was caught by the emergence of a beater from the line of trees at the far left. He had a pair of Springer Spaniels with him. Sherlock immediately broke open his Purdey, and said to John, "Stand down, John."

Those shooting to the right of the eighth peg carried on for a minute more, as the beaters were still coming down the last bit of the hill, and the last pheasants took to the air. John watched as Elizabeth Foukes took a fine high bird down, and Mycroft followed suit with a right and left barrel to take the last two. The elder Holmes looked down the line in both directions and then at the beaters lined up at the edge of the field, before blowing two sharp blasts on his whistle.

Rollo was now on his feet and his tail was wagging his entire body. Sherlock bent and slipped the lead off, and the brown dog shot off like a rocket. John started to pick up the empty cartridges, stuffing the empty red plastic and brass casings into the outside pocket of the cartridge bag.

"Count them, John. Wallace will ask for the number."

"What about Nik Green? He has some sort of bet on a record of yours. Does that include the number of shots, or just the number of birds?"

"Both- the ratio counts." Sherlock bent down as Rollo came up to his legs and held the first pheasant in his mouth, waiting for the tall man to take it. "Thank you, Rollo." The dog immediately released the dead bird into Sherlock's hand and was off again, like a shot.

Sherlock inspected the cock pheasant, which had a bloody head. "Hmm. This was the seventh bird."

"You can remember each one? I lost count…"

"That's because you were concentrating on loading, while I had the pleasure of shooting. And thanks to you, we did not manage to miss a single opportunity. We won't be so lucky on later drives, when the density of birds over is too great to get them all. This first drive is all about helping the guns get their eye in. Put your gloves on now, John; you need to keep your hands warm." He did the same, slipping his hands into a battered old pair of thermal mittens.

Dogs were now charging back and forth to the pegs, carrying the downed pheasants. John bent down to look at the growing line of birds beside Sherlock's peg. "I've never seen a pheasant close up before. The cock pheasants are gorgeous." He examined the brightly coloured feathers- a rich chestnut, sprinkled by flecks of golden-brown with black markings. The head was an extraordinary iridescent green above a collar of white, and the face was red.

"Not a native species, John. Think of them as long tailed Asiatic chickens. This is the ring-neck pheasant- bred and raised on the estate." He reached down to take the woodpigeon from Rollo. The toll was now up to nine pheasants and one pigeon. Rollo sat down, his tongue hanging out of his mouth, consumed by his frantic panting. Sherlock reached down and patted the brown cocker on the head. "Good boy, Rollo. Of course, this is the easy bit. Wait until we get in the woods. Then you will have to actually  _work_  to find them- a bit of detective work."

He slipped the lead back on the dog and collected John, then started back toward the car. The doctor wondered about the birds left behind by the peg. "What happens to them?"

"The pickers up will collect them and put them on the game cart- that's the trailer we passed on the way into the field. They hitch it to the third truck that the pickers up use, and take it onto the next drive.

As they walked, Sherlock's attention was fixed on a conversation going on between Sir Martin and Elizabeth. John heard a snatch of it, carried on the wind. Something about someone called "Sophia".

The other guns were gathering in a knot, exchanging comments about the shooting and chatting with their guests and the loaders. John wondered whether Sherlock would stop, but he walked straight past them toward the car. Wallace broke free from the crowd and came alongside John, while Rollo greeted Cleo. "How did it go?"

John nodded. "Okay. It wasn't easy keeping up with him, but it was certainly fun."

"How many, Sherlock?"

That stopped the tall brunet, who turned with a slightly suspicious look at the gamekeeper. "Are  _you_  betting, too?"

"Yes, well - I need to recover the twenty five quid I lost to Mrs Walters, don't I? So, what was it?"

"Nine, off ten shells- the seventh bird took two barrels."

"That makes a total bag from the drive of twenty eight. Not bad for Springhead. You'll see more action, John, at the next drive- the Folly on the Rackham side of the estate. More woods, and we can keep the birds local, instead of losing half of them over the ridge here."

The beaters had all clambered aboard the two trucks with their spaniels, and they were off. The pickers up were still at work, collecting the birds that had been gathered by the peg dogs, and some dogs were searching along the far side of the field, up against the hedgerow between the field and the lane. The gamekeeper saw John watching. "The American on the first peg swears he shot a hen pheasant, but no one's been able to find it yet. The Labs will keep looking- we don't want to leave a wounded bird if we can help it. Of course, it could be his imagination. Sometimes, the competitive instinct is so strong that people just assume they hit it when they were miles wide. I think he's got some sort of issue with the prince- there was a bit of argy-bargy over a bird which flew between the two."

When the three men got closer to the Landrover, they could hear barking from inside. Bella was raising a ruckus. The whole car was rocking from side to side as she threw herself from one side to the other. When Wallace opened the back, there was a chocolate brown explosion as she jumped out and gave a shake of her whole body, as if delighted finally to be joining the party. "Sorry, old girl. You won't be happy, but we're off to the next drive." He slipped the leads off the cockers and called a brief command, "Up!" which meant both obediently jumped into the Landrover. "Up you go, Bella. At least put your front paws up." The chocolate Lab sat down; she had no intention of willingly getting into her prison again. Wallace sighed, and then opened up the front passenger seat. Bella clambered in herself, and sat in the foot well, as the butts of the two shotguns in their sleeves were placed in the floor, and the cartridge bag on the seat. Sherlock and John got in the back seat.

When Wallace started the engine and put the Landrover in gear, he looked over at the Lab who was keeping her eye on him. "Just stop with the pathetic looks, Bella. I'm not going to let you run yourself into the ground. Those days are over."

There was something in his tone of voice that made Bella give a keening whine. It made John wonder what would happen if anyone ever mentioned the idea of "retirement" to Sherlock.


	16. Chapter 16

John had been warned by Wallace that the first drive was just an easy start. The next one, on the west side of the estate was similar in that the guns were placed in a stubble field, facing a wooded area, but Sherlock told him that this one, The Folly, was some five hundred yards deep, and there was a pheasant pen in there. "The birds are put out as pullets in July, and kept in the pen with food and water until their wings are strong enough to fly properly. The wire keeps the foxes at bay, and gives the birds a chance. But even after they leave the pen, they still tend to hang around. The grain feeders keep them in, too. So, the beaters will have to work their spaniels hard, but there should be plenty of shooting."

"That's rather…high maintenance."

Sherlock laughed. "John, think of these as extremely free range poultry- they are raised to be shot and eaten. They wouldn't exist if it weren't for the shooting. They are pampered until they are old enough to fend for themselves. And nearly half will survive the shooting season. If it were a choice between being a chicken or a pheasant, I know which one I'd go for."

This time, the pegs rotated. Sherlock who had been number 8 now became number one, and everyone else moved along one position. That meant he was now positioned at the extreme right, next to Ashton. No sooner were they in place than Barbara Ashton started flirting with John again. She was pretty, amusing and he really didn't mind.

"So what did you think of the first drive?" It was certainly a chat-up line that he'd never used before.

The American had dark shoulder length hair, which she was finding a challenge in the wind. Holding it back in one hand, she replied, "Well, I have to say that the first one was rather boring, with those two Arabs making eyes at one another all the time. Don't think they like Americans much. So, it's great that you're now going to be on hand for the rest of the day. But…" and here she gave him a coy look, "don't take this wrong. As delicious as your company is, Doctor Watson, what does it take from a girl to attract the attention of your gorgeous friend? He's kinda shy; want to introduce us?"

Sherlock did not turn to look at her. His eyes were scanning the trees some sixty meters in front of him. His Purdey was pointed towards the sky, but the butt was conveniently close to his shoulder. John got the impression that he was like a coiled spring.

"John. Concentrate." The baritone was firm- and in those two words, even the American would discern a dismissal.

The doctor shrugged apologetically. "Sorry, Barbara; duty calls. Maybe when there's a break."

She laughed. "Lordy- even the dog is fixated on him." She pointed to Rollo, who was sitting, staring at Sherlock. He, too, was like a coiled spring.

John took a deep breath as Mycroft's whistle went and the second drive began.

The next seventeen minutes passed in a blur of cordite and flying fingers. His hands had been warmed by the gloves, and he was kept so busy that he didn't have time to think about anything other than keeping Sherlock supplied with a loaded weapon. He'd lost track of the number of birds, but was dimly aware that Sherlock seemed to be firing at a much faster rate than his next door neighbour. James Ashton kept up a steady stream of swear words, some when he missed, others when he was busy re-loading when birds went by. The first time he was in the midst of re-loading and another bunch of pheasants came over, Sherlock called out- "Ashton, do you mind if I..?"

The American barked out a "be my guest" and the next thing John knew, Sherlock had let loose another two barrels.

"Christ almighty. Now I know why you have a loader. Instead, I've got a sister who just takes up space."

Barbara laughed. "Don't blame me, Jimmy; you're the one pulling the trigger." The American was getting more angry by the moment, as another group of pheasants broke cover between the two men. He let off both barrels too soon; Sherlock then took the two nearest to him, and handed off to John his empty gun, picking up the newly loaded one fast enough to be able to track two more after they had gone behind him. A double blast and two more were added to the total.

Ashton just started grumbling. "God, I am such a loser compared with you, Holmes."

"I have the advantage. This is home territory and I have a loader. It's only fair to compare like with like."

John noted that Sherlock was being more than usually social- even polite with the man.  _What's he after?_

When the drive was over, Wallace came down the gun line and gave Sherlock Cleo, as well as Rollo. "I've forgotten what you're like when you get your eye in. If I don't give him some help, you'll exhaust the poor chap before lunch." The two cockers went about their business, dashing about delivering their birds just as fast as their little legs could carry them. The Scot turned to Jimmy Ashton. "How many did you hit, and do you have an idea where they are? It's just that Cleo wasn't on your peg, and she wasn't marking for Sherlock, so she's likely to snag yours, too."

Ashton said "six."

Sherlock was facing away from the American, looking at John as this was said, and a smirk appeared. John's eyebrow went up in a query, and Sherlock's hand against his chest showed four fingers. John thought about what it would do to Sherlock's statistics- certainly affect the ratios, if he counted the empty shells versus the birds. He watched as Sherlock reached down to the ground to collect the empties, and quietly put two in his pocket, before putting the others into the side pocket of the cartridge bag. This time it was John who smirked. Sherlock really  _was_  on best behaviour. Not prepared to expose the American, but not willing to mess up his own results in the process- a fair compromise. But that was so  _unlike_  Sherlock that it made the doctor wonder again what the consulting detective was playing at.

There was a break now after two drives, and the guns and their guests were called over to the back of Mycroft's Landrover. Nik Green opened the back up and unloaded a hamper. Inside, a series of flasks with coffees and different kinds of tea competed for space with bottles of sloe gin and calvados. "Something to warm you up a bit" was the explanation given.

When Nik came around to offer them a choice, Sherlock just shook his head. But he did look at John. "If you want to warm your hands up, go for the black coffee. Avoid the alcohol- it will just slow you down, and things are finally about to speed up."

That comment nearly drove John to take the alcohol. The last drive had pushed him to the limit and he knew that Sherlock had wasted some opportunities simply because he couldn't get the damn gun loaded fast enough. But the caffeine would help keep him sharp, so he followed the recommendation. Despite the challenge, he had counted the cartridges and seen the haul that the two cockers had brought back to the peg- and been proud. Twenty birds, and he'd played a part in doubling Sherlock's count from the first drive.

As he sipped his coffee, John looked at the assembled group and then back at Sherlock. There had been something bugging him since he'd first seen Sherlock this morning and he suddenly put his finger on it now that his flatmate was standing near to the rest of the party. The guns and their guests 'looked' the part. Sherlock's clothes were more like a beater's gear.

"Sherlock, I don't get it. In the lab, you wear a suit when a white lab coat would be more practical. Here, where you would actually get the chance to dress up, you go for the… ah…well-worn look, not to say downright scruffy. Why?"

Sherlock sniffed. "For me, shooting is about the challenge of hitting a moving target- it's the  _shooting_  I am interested in. For the others, dressing up is all about being seen to be one of the privileged few. It's that class thing, John. I'm less interested in looking the part in order to fit into someone's expectations than I am in shooting well. For that, I choose clothing that is functional. I know these clothes, because I've worn them for years. They're comfortable and not distracting. "

John smirked. "And does your choice of shooting gear irritate Mycroft because it …um, lowers the tone?"

He was answered by a grin. "Anything that pricks that bubble of pomposity must have merits, John."

Sherlock turned and faced the group of beaters and pickers up, who were some distance away now clustered around the back of one of their trucks. "I'd rather be with them. They are talking about the shooting, the condition of the birds, the dogs' ability to get the birds up in a way that means they can actually be shot and whether they did a good or bad job retrieving. Much more interesting."

"So, why are you with this crowd, when you'd rather be over there? And, why are you being  _polite_  to that American when he's cheating?"

"I'm  _working_ , John. I'm learning a lot about why each one of these people was invited, and what kind of people they are. A break like this is an ideal opportunity to eavesdrop or even to do a bit of surreptitious interrogation. Lunch will be even better. I will want you to ask some questions of several people, while I do the same with others. In the meantime, do that thing you do with women- go chat up Sarah. You said that you thought she and Wills were 'an item'- go test that idea. I want to observe his reaction. I'll be talking to the Arab contingent- something's fishy about that aide of his, and I might be able to figure it out."

John gave him a smirk, "you're in danger of turning this into a busman's holiday, Sherlock." But he did go over to where Sarah Barnard and David Wills were talking to Sir Martin Whetle and Lady Margaret. The Brussels-based Eurocrat was swapping best restaurant recommendations with Lady Margaret. Sarah was directing her full attention toward the Foreign Office veteran, asking him to give her some ideas about who in the European Parliament was "worth knowing" when it came to cross-border crime.

John felt a little uncomfortable gate-crashing the conversation, and wondered how he could do it without looking too obvious when the Brigadier General came up. "I say, Captain Watson, that chap you are loading for is quite the marksman." His comment caught the attention of the Whetles and the other two. Whetle nodded in agreement. "Clearly, the younger son had the advantage of more time on his hands. The Viscount has a rather important job that ties him up in London a great deal."

John bristled slightly at the superior tone of the older man. "Actually, Mycroft Holmes shoots far more regularly than his brother. Sherlock hasn't held a shotgun in six years- well, not one aimed at a pheasant in any case. I can't say whether he might have picked one up at a crime scene as evidence."

Wills gave him a sharp look. "Oh bloody hell- that's where I've heard his name before…he's that consulting chap, the one the Metropolitan Police use occasionally. There's been something in the paper about a case- what was it? Chinese smugglers or something?"

John nodded. Lady Margaret looked down her nose at him. She was a tall, rather thin and stern-faced woman. "How…odd. Still, I suppose younger sons in aristocratic families are rather superfluous and need to find something to do. Most of the ones I know go off and do something frightfully high-powered in the City."

For a moment, John almost succumbed to the idea of telling her about just such a banker called Sebastian Wilkes, whose bank had been helped by Sherlock. But David Wills cut that idea short- "I know you met briefly last night, but did you know that Sarah's just about to join the new National Crime Agency? Maybe she and Sherlock should compare notes or something."

The red-haired girl gave Wills a playful punch on the arm. "Trying to get rid of me so fast, Dave? I've only got eyes for you. I'm not one for this shooting business, but any excuse to get away from London for a weekend with you, even if it a rather bizarre activity."

Sir Martin Whetle almost harrumphed in disapproval. "Young lady, don't tell me that you are one of those lefty hunt saboteurs, accusing us of some sort of animal cruelty?"

The lawyer smiled. "Of course not, Sir Martin. It's just a strange idea. Farmed pheasant tastes just as nice without having to go to all this expense and trouble."

Lady Margaret's reaction was tart. "No sense of history, youth these days. This is a pastime that proper gentlemen have been pursuing for centuries. Your urban prejudices are showing, my dear." John watched as the young woman registered the patronising epithet, but chose not to rise to the bait. Interestingly, the man she was clearly attracted to, David Wills, did not even attempt to defend her.

Nik Green arrived with seconds, and the other five held out their small silver beakers for a second shot of sloe gin. John declined, but handed back his coffee cup. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sherlock speaking to the Prince and his aide. The bodyguards loitered nearby. The aide was handing round glass beakers of what appeared to be hot tea, with no milk. The wind gust brought a snatch of conversation to the doctor's ears, and he realised that it was all in Arabic.  _I didn't know that Sherlock spoke Arabic._  When he turned back to the others in the group behind him, he saw that both Sarah and David had realised exactly the same thing. Whilst Sarah looked on with admiration, the look on the face of the European Commission civil servant was one of distinctively nervous shock.


	17. Chapter 17

The Landrover drove into the gravel drive in front of the farmhouse; they were the last in a long queue, waiting while the others got parked and out of the cars. Wallace announced "Sparrit Farm- we have lunch here at the farmhouse, while the dogs get a well-deserved breather. That last drive, Sherlock…you really outdid yourself. And John, don't let Nik Green tell you anything; you kept up with the madman just fine."

John smiled, grateful for the compliment. The two drives in Northpark woods had been just amazing fun. He looked around the cars in the driveway, as the guns and their guests headed for the farmhouse. "What happened to the beaters and the pickers up?"

Wallace pointed across the main road. "They get lunch over in the farmyard barn."

Sherlock smirked. "And so Mycroft ensures that the vassals are kept in their place."

John rolled his eyes. "Well, if you'd really rather be over there with the common folk, Sherlock, I'm sure your brother wouldn't mind."

"No, on this occasion, I'm happy to use the lunch hour to further my investigation."

"What investigation? What exactly are you doing, other than irritating your brother by poking your nose into his guest list?"

As Sherlock got out of the Landrover, he answered John's question. "It's not  _his_  guest list, John- and that is what's got his nose out of joint."

John frowned. "Either I'm being dense here, or you're being purposefully opaque. It's his shoot, his invitation list. That's why we are here."

Sherlock turned to him. "This guest list has been hijacked by Mrs Ffoukes. What else brings together a retired NATO general, an Arab prince, a European Commission civil servant working on the latest transition report on Romania, an American defence contract consultant, and a former ambassador to _Bulgaria_. What is the one common denominator linking these people that we know for sure?"

"Are you suggesting that there is some connection between the guests and our case?" John's voice climbed in incredulity.

"Obviously, and the DG of MI6 must be aware of it, too, because she's assembled such an  _interesting_  group of people. The lowest common denominator? That's easy; they are for the most part working terribly hard to suggest that they don't know each other."

John thought that one through. "What about Sir Martin and Ashton- I could have sworn that when he introduced him to me at supper last night, he said they had known each other when they were both in Brussels."

"Yes; that was before the others got into the room, wasn't it?"

John tried to remember. "…I think so."

"I  _know_  so, John. None of them had any idea that the others had been invited. As soon as the second person that Whetle knew arrived, he started pretending he didn't know them. One could be excused as a co-incidence, but when the others arrived they must have all realised that someone chose this guest list with a particular purpose in mind. And they've all carried on with the charade. They are all linked in some way, and I don't think it is a co-incidence that I happen to be investigating something related to Bulgaria and Romania, either. Too…convenient. I think if I keep digging I am going to find more that links them all together."

John thought about it. "How do you  _know_  that they know each other but aren't willing to admit it? I don't get how that can be deduced from what they are saying to one another."

Sherlock stopped walking and looked down at John in surprise. "You…don't hear it? In their tone of voice? Or see it in their body language?"

The doctor shook his head. "No."

"Oh. That's interesting." His hands came together under his chin for a moment.

"And that's not an answer to the question. How do you see it when I don't?"

Sherlock tilted his head as he considered the question. "It's not about seeing; it's about understanding what you see. You know when you go to a play- ever seen an actor who is being, well, too 'actor-ish'? You know… not convincing? Somehow, you can tell that they are acting rather than  _living_  the part. They don't inhabit the character. That's what I see here: people who are not very good at acting trying to act. But because they aren't used to it, to me, it's obvious."

He started walking toward the barn, and John fell into stride beside him. The doctor was thinking through what Sherlock had said, and replied "While you, on the other hand, are a master at acting polite and sociable if you want to, but if it isn't for a case, you can't be bothered." He'd seen Sherlock put on an act of normality that was so convincing that it was downright manipulative, if it was needed to extract information from a witness or a suspect- and the man was at it again here. Even after nine months of living and working with him, he was still shocked when his flatmate did it.

That comment earned him a smirk from Sherlock. "Why do you think I was taught all that Shakespeare? I am a better actor than they are, but that's because I was taught acting from a very young age. If I hadn't been, then I'd probably have been labelled anything but high functioning. Your powers of deduction are improving, John."

John had an epiphany. It was like looking at four separate jigsaw pieces and then realising that they will all fit together to provide one of the puzzle's four corners.  _This is what Sherlock does. He "acts" normal only when he has to._  And the fact that Sherlock didn't feel the need to act around him, when they were sharing the flat? John now realised that it wasn't his flatmate being inconsiderate and impossible; it was Sherlock feeling comfortable enough around John to be himself. He felt something seismic change in the way he thought of his flatmate.

But there was still something niggling him. "Why do you think Mycroft isn't happy with the situation?"

Sherlock snorted. "Because he is being  _ever_  so polite with her. To the point where he is making it clear that she has asked him for something that he really doesn't want to do, so he is extracting maximum value out of letting her do it. I've been watching my brother for decades, John; he's an open book to me when it comes to deducing his motivations."

"But that doesn't explain  _why_ , Sherlock. Why wouldn't he want this case to be sorted? I would have thought he'd be delighted that this is getting the proper attention."

"Now you are asking the right question. I need more data." Sherlock stopped before going in the door, drawing John aside from the door so their conversation would not be observed. "I need you to do three things for me over lunch. I want you to carry on your flirting with Barbara Ashton so you can ask her if her brother speaks Spanish, and if he travels to Mexico on either business or holiday. And I need you to ask the Brigadier's wife about what postings she was forced to endure before he retired. I need to know his movements, starting five years ago. You can commiserate with her about the trials and tribulations of being an army wife; I am sure she could bore for Britain on the subject. Better you than me; I could not stand the tedium in order to extract the information I need from either of these two women."

"Gee, thanks. You don't mind forcing me to endure it. How kind."

That made Sherlock's brow furrow. "It's what you do. You seem to be enjoying the flirting, so I don't think  _that's_  a hardship. And listening sympathetically to a middle-aged woman who is an army wife complaining? I would have thought that is an occupational hazard- as an Army doctor you'd have double the reason to have to learn how to cope with it. Comes with your job, John. Thank God, it doesn't come with mine."

"So, what are  _you_  going to be doing?"

"I have to figure out what possible connection Lady Caroline can have with all this. She's the puzzle piece that just does NOT fit. And I get to tackle the battle axe- Lady Margaret- to find out why Sir Martin took early retirement instead of holding out for the full pension. So, I assure you, I am also suffering in the line of duty, John. And I suppose in the effort to appear 'normal' I shall have to look as if I am eating. The sacrifices I have to make for the sake of the case" and he rolled his eyes.

"Oh, dear- poor you." John let the sarcasm show, but added a wry smile to show it was a tease. "Just how is all this supposed to help you crack what's going on in Kentish Town?"

"I'll tell you after the shooting's over. There's still a lot of hunting for data that has to be done between now and then. And I would, actually, like to spend a little time on the shooting, as well."

"What happens in the drives after lunch? Am I going to need yet more caffeine?" he said this lightly, but there was an honest need to know. His left shoulder was starting to ache; the constant movement up and down, carrying the five pounds of wood and metal was beginning to take a toll. He was starting to look forward to a long hot bath in that ridiculously big bath tub.

Sherlock headed in through the side door of the farmhouse as he answered. "The next drive will be a walk-up for partridge. Different terrain, different birds, different tactics- no peg dogs for a start, and we are on the move. I'll explain more in the car on the way. Then the last should be the best of all- the pegs are back out in a field, but the beaters will take the whole southern part of Northpark and Fangrove Hill, as well. The best has been saved for last."

John decided he was going to need something sweet for lunch, or he'd never be able to keep up. Maybe another cup of black coffee, too.


	18. Chapter 18

Looking in from the boot room where they had entered, the farm house kitchen looked conventional enough- there was a large Aga and a big welsh dresser with blue and white plates on it. But where the old farmhouse kitchen wall used to be an extension had been added, which opened out into an oak beamed, glass-roofed conservatory. A cosy traditional room had been converted into the most modern of hospitality venues.

"Take your boots off, John."

Sherlock was already doing the same to his own, adding them to the long line of Wellingtons and leather boots leaning up against the radiator, under the coats hanging on the pegs. Next to the smart jackets, Sherlock's old battered coat looked decidedly out of place. When John complied, and his socks hit the stone floor, he was surprised to find it comfortably warm. His face must have shown his surprise.

"Under-floor heating- all mod cons in the estate farms, whenever listing regulations will let Mycroft get away with it. He does love his creature comforts."

"Maybe, Sherlock, but it sounds like the estate farm workers are the ones who get the most benefit."

The two men were greeted by a slim young woman carrying a tray of canapés. "Something to tempt you, gentlemen?"

For a moment, John wondered if she realised the double entendre- he was looking at a gorgeous young waitress in a tight black outfit, complete with a white frilly apron and cap.  _Talk about temptation…._

"John,  _focus._ " The baritone commanded his attention, and John found himself blushing as Sherlock continued "We have work to do, remember?" This was said quietly, as the taller man went off towards a knot of people standing in the conservatory around a table burdened with food. John smiled at the young lady and lifted off a mini-Yorkshire pudding stuffed with a tiny slice of rare roast beef and a dab of horseradish. It was delicious, so he snagged another one before she disappeared into the crowd.

Barbara turned, spotting him and beaming him a big smile. "Just the man. I was trying to explain to David Wills here just how good Sherlock Holmes is at shooting. But you were right there in the thick of it, so can explain it better than I could."

John took a good look at the Eurocrat. He was of medium height, well built under blond hair cut short. His shooting gear didn't look brand new, so likely to be someone who had shot before. Sarah Barnard was at his elbow, looking a little competitively at Barbara's ability to command Wills' attention.

"You probably know more about shooting than I do, Mister Wills." The doctor didn't want to look foolish in front of someone who was a regular at this sport.

The man shrugged. "I've done a bit, sure- but never in the woods like that. It's just impossible when you've got no room to get your eye on the birds. Blink and they're over you and hiding in the trees behind you."

Barbara laughed. "It reminds me of a fair ground shooting gallery- you know, the ones that have the bird target that suddenly flips up and you're got just seconds to hit it before it disappears again."

John nodded. It was a good analogy.

Wills continued. "I made a mess of things- just couldn't get my birds sighted well enough before they crossed the twenty feet or so of the track and then back into the woods. God- eighteen shots fired and only four birds to show for it. But, if anything, Holmes just got even better in that drive. How does he do it?"

John decided he could pass on what he'd been told, when he'd asked the very same question of Sherlock. "He said that it's actually easier, because the birds are lower, closer to the gun. So, as long as you can spot them early enough, they are an easier target."

"Only if you have an incredibly fast reaction time." Elizabeth Ffoukes turned away from the table, carrying a plate of food. She'd obviously overheard the conversation and was joining it. "Every one of the guns took fewer birds on the woodland drives than they did on the two before coffee. That is, except Sherlock. You did very well to keep up with him, Doctor Watson; quite remarkable for someone who had never loaded a shotgun before."

"I used to be a surgeon; I guess I'm just quick with my hands," he said modestly.

She was watching Wills, and Sarah who was now at the table placing food on two plates. "Nonsense, you clearly know him very well and you're able to anticipate what he needs. That's a rare quality. No wonder he lets you work with him on his investigations. According to his brother, he's never done that before; always preferred to work alone."

Wills seemed to be uncomfortable in Elizabeth's presence, so John wasn't surprised when he said "Well, as Sarah's been so kind as to fill me a plate, I'd better find a seat and get tucked in; want to be sharp on the last two drives, and redeem myself." He collected his plate from the lawyer and followed her over to some comfortable chairs.

Mrs Ffoukes' talk of Sherlock made John remember what he was supposed to be doing. So he tried to steer the conversation away from himself. "Well, I'd rather talk about something other than work. This is supposed to be a bit of a holiday." He turned his attention back to Barbara. "Speaking of holidays, Barbara, you're looking far too tanned and healthy to have spent much time recently in the UK. The weather here over the past month's been dire, but you look like you've been on a beach- anywhere nice?"

"Oh, my goodness, and you haven't even seen the bikini line in my tan! Not under all these tweeds. You're pretty observant, John. I am finding the cold a bit of a shock, because I've just got back from the Yucatan peninsula. Lovely beach weather there right now- the hurricane season is nearly over, and the place is just sizzling- the perfect antidote to boring grey Brussels."

Rather helpfully, Elisabeth asked the question that John was about to ask- "Did your brother go with you? Either that, or he's been on a sunbed somewhere."

Barbara laughed. "Yes- to both questions. Yes, he went with me, and, yes, he spent time on a sunbed, because he was in meetings so much while we were out there that he didn't have time to lounge around on the beach."

John spotted his chance. "Oh, he was there on business. Does he speak Spanish? Or were you dragged there as a translator, but escaped to enjoy yourself instead?" John kept it a teasing joke, but hoped he'd get what he'd been sent to find out.

Barbara tossed her dark hair in a playful nod. " _Mi hermano habla español con fluidez._  Better than me, in fact. One of his best mates in Houston when we were kids was a Latino. Thick as thieves they were."

_Okay…that's two down, Sherlock, one to go. Now to extract myself and go find the Brigadier's wife._

Before he could do so, however, his attention and that of the two women with him was caught by the sight of the Arab contingent arriving. The Prince and his aide, and the two bodyguards swept into the room. Mycroft detached himself from a conversation with Lady Caroline and Arabella, and greeted the Prince. As soon as he left, the teenager bolted away from her mother and took up residence at the far end of the conservatory, on a hard chair that she turned to face the garden. After reassuring the Arab quartet that the food was halal and the so-called cocktail sausages were in fact beef and never been anywhere near alcohol, Mycroft joined them as they tucked into the food. It was his second plate, John noted, and imagined Sherlock's snide comment,  _how's the diet going?_  John decided he'd better grab a plate himself if he was going to refuel enough to keep up with the physical demands of loading.

The table presented an extraordinary choice- an entire cold poached salmon had been attacked by the lunch crowd, but it was so big that there was plenty left for him. He put a few of the cold langoustines on, as well. There was a plate of slices of rare roast beef, too, as well as a dish of hot chicken legs in what appeared to be a mustard, honey and rosemary sauce. He had troubles deciding between a cold potato salad and a bowl of new potatoes, warm in butter with a sprinkling of fresh parsley. He went for the heat- although the farm house was deliciously warm, he knew that the wind was increasing and the temperature was dropping outside. Various other salads- beetroot and carrot, a three bean in vinaigrette dressing, and a leaf salad joined the salmon on his plate. It made him think about how hard it was to get Sherlock to eat anything that might be remotely called a balanced diet, let alone five portions of fresh fruit or vegetables. He forked in the first few mouthfuls of delicious food and just hummed with delight. Unlike his flatmate, John appreciated good food, prepared to such high standards.  _Too many years of dull army rations and hospital canteen food._

He'd nearly finished the plate when he saw that at the far end of the table, Lady Caroline had been cornered by Christine Berrisford. The doctor watched the Countess slip into the polite mode of one used to such social encounters.  _She's good at this, almost as good as Mycroft is at working a room._  The tall blonde was really quite attractive. Not in a classically beautiful way; it was more her manner and style that drew and pleased the eye. It made him wonder whether the aristocracy simply came pre-wired with good manners. And then the thought made him stifle a giggle.  _Someone must have been asleep when Sherlock's hard drive went by on the conveyor belt._ He also remembered Lady Caroline's comment about Arabella's manners, but at least she had the excuse of youth and teenaged angst.

As he approached the two women, he saw out of the corner of his eye that Sherlock was talking to the teenager in the corner of the conservatory. He sighed when he noticed that neither of them had a plate. Maybe he'd be able to find out something about Lady Caroline that would help Sherlock, as well as getting what was needed with the Brigadier's wife.

"Hello, Lady Caroline, Mrs Berrisford. I hope the morning's shooting wasn't too boring for you. I wonder whether it's really a spectator sport."

The Countess gave him a genuine smile. "Oh, I assure you, Doctor Watson, it is a most amusing way to fill one's morning. I can learn a lot about someone by watching them shoot."

"Such as?"

"Well, consider the two Holmes brothers. Mycroft is an experienced good shot; he plans, and doesn't shoot unless he knows he is going to hit it. As a result, he is going to have a very good ratio of shots fired to birds taken. And then there is his brother, who uses his unusual ability to spot motion faster than normal people to such amazing effect. Mycroft says his brother is the better shot, but it must take a toll having one's sense extended so much. I'm not surprised that Sherlock doesn't shoot often."

John nodded as he finished his last forkful. "You are a good observer, Lady Caroline. Do you shoot?"

"Oh I can, but I don't often; I've always had more fun as a picker up. I have a pair of Labs at home that I work during the season at my home in Wiltshire."

"You didn't bring them with you?"

Lady Caroline smiled. "No, handling one difficult young daughter is challenging enough in company; my two young Labs are still a little 'enthusiastic' for this level of shooting. Fastest way to wear out a welcome at a shooting party is for a guest's dog to run amok."

Christine Berrisford butted in, "Your Wiltshire home- that's Wilton House- it's lovely. I dragged Tom off to see it when he was posted at Tidworth on the Salisbury Plain. That was in the old Earl's time, but we did so enjoy it when he opened the house for visitors on special weekends." The Brigadier's wife was one of those women whom John had run across time and again in his army days. Tough-minded- you had to be to be apart from your husband for months at a time. Totally devoted to the children, and a little frustrated, because it was never easy to manage a career when at any point you could be uprooted and then stuck in some god-forsaken back of beyond just because it had army housing. So, when an opportunity for social contact occurred, they tended to grab it with both hands. The life style bred a kind of social ferocity of purpose in the army wife, which some people found tiresome. But Lady Caroline was far too polite to let any such reaction show.

John decided it was his chance to steer the conversation in the direction Sherlock wanted him to take. "Tidworth's on the edge of Salisbury Plain- I have some interesting memories of a training exercise on the Plain. Freezing cold, howling gales and a lot of mud – it was a tank manoeuver and it cut the ground up terribly. Surely, Mrs Berrisford, you've had better postings than that!"

She gave a weary smile. "Well, yes. Tidworth is rather a barracks town. My poor children complained bitterly that there was never anything to do. They all took the bus into Salisbury in the hope of finding something interesting, but not much of a nightlife. They were much happier in Brussels where we were lucky enough to be posted when Tom worked with NATO. Then they went off to university, graduated and got married. Quite flown the nest. Mary's in Australia and my son is in Eastern Europe, so I hardly ever see them or the grandchildren."

Lady Caroline heard the woman's sadness and responded kindly, "but surely now that your husband has retired, you can visit your children. Australia is a great place to spend avoiding an English winter."

"If only. Tom is so keen on shooting that he spends every weekend and at least one day a week from October to February shooting. He'd rather lose a limb than miss a season. "

John tried to figure out how to get the woman to talk about the Eastern European connection, because he knew Sherlock would pounce on that. He remembered one of Sherlock's interrogation techniques-  _People will correct you without thinking, but they won't answer a direct question_. "I guess Australia must be a much nicer destination than somewhere in the Balkans. Is your son finding it hard in Romania, or is it Bulgaria?"

Christine gave a resigned shrug. "Well, you know, with the economy here in the UK just barely keeping its head above water, young people need to go where the work is. He's been lucky and found a nice job in Bucharest. It's quite a historic town- lots of lovely old buildings, good culture, too; his wife and he can afford child care so they can get out to the concerts and art exhibitions."

"Is he in the arts then?" This came from Lady Caroline.

"Good Lord, no. Not a creative gene in the family, I fear. Like father, like son. Despite being an army man, Tom's less a warrior and more a logistics specialist. Our son Simon did engineering and works for a manufacturing firm now. He's doing well- lots of opportunity apparently in formerly nationalised industries that have been privatised."

And John figured that would be extremely interesting news to Sherlock- a Romanian connection. He glanced around the room to find Sherlock- but didn't see him anywhere.

"Um, excuse me ladies; I don't mean to be rude but I need to go find Sherlock- to get an idea of what's planned for this afternoon. I'm finding this loading business to be quite challenging."

Lady Caroline spotted him looking around; she leaned in conspiratorially. "I think you'll find him outside. He's probably cadged a cigarette off Lady Margaret. Just don't let Arabella know. I've already caught her smoking on the sly once this trip." He gave her a reassuring nod.

As John went back into the kitchen and dropped off his now empty plate, he passed by Barbara, deep in a conversation with David Wills. Sarah Barnard was hovering, a little suspicious of the American's flirtatious style. But Wills seemed to be lapping it up. John knew that he'd be able to tell Sherlock that whatever Sarah thought about being together with the Eurocrat, the target of her affection surely didn't feel constrained by that. As John went into the boot room, he overheard a cryptic exchange between Sir Martin and Jimmy Ashton, who were standing off by the window. He used the excuse of putting his boots and coat on to eavesdrop.

The diplomat sounded annoyed. He gave an emphatic "No," which prompted a terse reply from the American. "That's just garbage and you know it…are you going to call, or am I going to have to do it?" There was an edge of steel in the tone of the American's voice that jarred. Everyone else was being so polite to one another that it made this question sound really aggressive. And it made John realise that Sherlock was probably right- it didn't sound like the kind of comment one would make to someone they scarcely knew. There was a touch of menace in it that must have sat uncomfortably with the former Foreign Office official, who was probably used to more deference from the people with whom he worked and socialised.

The conversation seemed to have ended. Without a legitimate excuse to loiter any longer, John passed on out the door and went around the corner of the building, sniffing the air to see if he could find the secret smokers.

He found the pair leaning up against the side of the farmhouse, trying to get some shelter from the wind. Both were puffing away.

"You know I am a doctor, Lady Margaret, so I expect you know what I am going to say about smoking."

The hard faced woman barked out a husky laugh. "Of course, Doctor Watson- but blame your friend just as much as me; it was his suggestion."

"Which you readily agreed to, Lady Margaret," Sherlock did not hide his smirk from his comment.

"Well, in my life, if I didn't have the occasional vice, I'd just shrivel up with boredom. And believe me, I've had to endure more than my fair share of boring diplomatic luncheons. My husband may feel able to eat for Britain, but my patriotic duty does not extend to growing my waistline."

John realised that Sherlock must have found at least two things he had in common with the woman, despite her original dismissal of him earlier that morning as a 'second son' and his comment about her being a 'battle axe'.

The diplomat's wife looked down at her watch. "Uh, oh, gentlemen; we've got less than ten minutes to go before the fun and games start again. I'd better get to the Ladies Room. Hiding behind a tree is all well and good for you blokes, but we women have a harder time of it if we get caught short in the middle of a drive." As she passed Sherlock, she did say, "Anytime you want another one, just come find me. Martin doesn't care for it, and it will give me an excuse to escape the house for a moment."

As she went back around the corner of the house, John looked up at Sherlock, who was taking the last few deep drags off the fag end of his cigarette. "You seem to have her eating out of your hand." The doctor reached up and took the cigarette out of Sherlock's hand, dropping it to the ground and grinding it out on the gravel with his foot.

"Don't blame me, John. I was just keeping her company so I could get the information I needed."

"Don't pretend that was a sacrifice for the case, Sherlock. I know you too well."

The tall consulting detective gave a shrug. "It was worth a try. And I did get what I needed. Her husband took early retirement from the Foreign Office so he could join a think tank, specialising in Eastern Europe. He speaks Romanian, Bulgarian, Polish and Russian. And he's been making frequent journeys to Sofia over the last year. The puzzle pieces are starting to come together. Tell me what you found out, before we have to get ready for the next drive."

John spent the next ten minutes doing just that, while the pair of them drank a coffee out by the back of the Landrover. The doctor took the time to stuff down two chocolate biscuits with his black coffee. Sherlock spent the time listening, but also feeding Bella scraps of rare roast beef that he'd brought on a plate out from the farmhouse.

"Why don't you eat some of that yourself, Sherlock?"

The taller man gave the hungry Labrador a smile. "I want food for thought, John. That's all I need right now. Continue."


	19. Chapter 19

"Gentlemen…and lady" Mycroft added as he looked at Elizabeth Ffoukes. "This drive – the Rackham Common- is rather different. Only guns and loaders are involved. Guests and the peg dogs are being driven on to the next and final drive. We have the pleasure of walking there, and on the way, attempting to put up some partridge."

The group was standing amongst the trees of Sparrite Common, on a hillside getting a briefing from the elder Holmes. The beaters had left the barn and headed off into Northpark Wood; their efforts were not needed for this drive. The pickers up had been sent down the road, and their truck and the game cart were now parked up at the West Lodges farm. The guns and their loaders walked from the farmhouse through a security gate in the estate's stone walls, across the main road and down a path into the woods.

"When we get to the corner of this wood and the field below us, we take the path that goes to the left, where you will need to line up in peg order. As this is the fifth drive, that puts me at the far southern end of the line, so I will lead the way. Mrs Ffoukes, you are the anchor at the northern end, with my brother in the middle. Stay at least three meters into the woods, please, about five meters apart from each other. When I blow the whistle, we will walk forward into the field in line."

The group of eleven men and one woman paid attention as Mycroft continued. "Please keep in that line as we walk through the field; it is crucial that no one gets in front of the shooting. In the field is a winter green fertilizer crop - about a foot high- and hiding underneath it should be about a hundred or more partridge. They are very skittish birds and if we find any at this end of the field, they are likely to fly but keep very low- so no shooting. They are likely to drop back into the lucern crop somewhere along the way before the far end of the field. You'll be able to see the tree line at the eastern end of the field- that also marks the course of Rackham Street- which gets plenty of passing car traffic. When we cross the half way mark through the field, when the partridge lift from the crop, they are likely to rise high enough to clear the trees and the road. At that point, they become fair game and you may shoot. I have to stress that there can be  _no_  low shooting. This is a public road, and I can't stop local traffic. So, make sure you only shoot when you see clear sky  _above_  that tree line. It won't be possible to collect your spent cartridges in this ground cover, so don't even try; it's more important to keep up with the straight line. Do count your shots, and whether you think you have downed a bird; the pickers up will be watching from the side lines, and will send in their dogs to retrieve when we have left the field. They will do their best to keep track of who shot what. Are there any questions?"

There were none, so the party moved down the hill and turned into the woods along the south-western edge of the field. Inevitably, the walkers started to string out, with gaps appearing as the path meandered its way through the trees and dense undergrowth of brambles, bracken and nettles. Even though it was just after 3pm the sun was now low on the horizon, and the shadows were lengthening. The golden light slanting through the trees was gorgeous. John drew in a deep breath of forest- autumn leaves and dampened earth.  _Just about as far from Baker Street's aroma as I can imagine._

"It's beautiful."

But rather than respond to John's delight, Sherlock suddenly bent down on one knee, fingering a buckle on his boot. "Quiet!" he hissed.

"What's wrong?"

"Shhh!"

John came around in front of Sherlock, still down on one knee but his head held up. When he could see his flatmate's face, he realised that Sherlock was listening very intently to something. His eyes were almost closed, and it looked as if he were holding his breath. John tried to follow suit- listened, really listened. At first all he could hear was the sound of the wind sighing in the trees, the rattle of the brown leaves that were still left on the branches. Ahead he could hear the sound of the rest of the party- the crack of a twig snapping, the boots on the leaves and mud, a few words being exchanged. Then he heard something else- a murmur of voices, off to their left and well behind them.

He ran through the party in his mind, counting them off when he last saw them. That made him realise at least one of them was Jimmy Ashton, as he was the only one he remembered was behind them. A gust of wind brought a snatch of conversation closer to him- yes, it sounded like two male voices, but he couldn't make out the words. He glanced down at Sherlock, whose eyes were now completely shut and he was completely still. But there was a growing smile, then eventually a gasp for breath.

"Oh, how  _very_  interesting…."

The taller man stood up and then wobbled a bit. Instinctively, John reached out a hand to grasp his arm to steady him. But the flinch away came quickly, chased by a frown across Sherlock's face.

"Don't. I'm fine. I just had to hold my breath so I could make out the words." He drew in a few deep lungful's worth of air and then steadied.

"Could you actually hear them?" John was slightly incredulous.

"Yes- just. And they are coming up quickly now, so let's get moving again. I will explain later."

When they reached the fork in the path, the two men behind had caught up- it was Ashton and the Prince's aide- Razi Al Farkhri. The Arab passed them to catch up with the Prince- it was time to get into peg order. Elizabeth Ffoukes was stationed at the near end; she observed each of the guns go past her and then line up as requested, some five meters between them. At the far end, John could see Mycroft and Nik Green, both of whom were now loading their shotguns. Sherlock did the same, so John got to work.

A few minutes passed as the rest of the line readied themselves. Then Mycroft gave a single blast on the whistle and the line began to move forward out of the woods and into the green field. John found it a little odd; he had to lift his boots over the top of the crop with each step, because trying to walk normally through the lucern meant the crop's tough stalks dragged at his boots. The leaves completely covered his feet as soon as he set them down- he had no idea what was down there as he walked. For his taller companion, there was no problem- but as John looked down the line, he saw that the shorter members of the shooting party were as challenged as he was.

Then a high pitched whirr of wings drew his attention forward again. About thirty feet in front of Sir Martin, a covey of about ten partridge lifted out of the green crop and flew away at waist height. He was surprised at how small and fast they were, compared with a pheasant- only a quarter of the size but easily twice as quick. Almost before anyone had a chance to react, they were a good hundred meters in front and then dropped back into the green sea of lucern.

After a moment's hesitation, the line advanced. John could now clearly see the line of trees at the edge of the field, marking the boundary with Rackham Street. The occasional car could be seen and heard through the trees and rough bushes. He wondered if the drivers had any idea how vulnerable they were if someone decided to shoot too low.  _Mycroft is placing a lot of trust in people knowing just what they are doing._

They walked on for a few minutes and John began to wonder if they were on a wild goose chase. Then, when there was less than a hundred feet left of the field before the road, the ground in front of Prince Rashid erupted with birds, and the sound must have triggered the rest of the partridges to take flight. Suddenly the air was alive with birds and shotguns going off. He stopped watching and just concentrated on getting the cartridges into the gun that was being handed back to him just as soon as Sherlock could fire both barrels.

It was all over in less than two minutes. Partridges soared over the trees and into the field beyond. He hadn't even had time to look at what else was happening on the line. In that time, Sherlock had fired ten shots, and John had swapped four times. He opened the breech for the last time and two shells ejected. John could feel the heat in the barrels, a welcome warmth in the cold wind.

There was a whoop of delight from the Prince- echoed by smiles and laughter from almost all of the guns and loaders. Only Sherlock was quiet, and that kept John silent, too. It was certainly different from pheasant shooting- and no one really had any idea how many birds had been shot because it had been done so quickly.

Mycroft blew twice on the whistle. Sherlock popped opened the breech on his Purdey and ejected the spent cartridges, then settled the weapon open in the crook of his elbow. John saw the almost feral intensity of the look on his face start to fade. The taller man then closed his eyes for a moment, and drew a few deep breaths.

"You alright, Sherlock?" John was concerned to see an even paler face than normal.

"Hmm….I'm fine… Just a bit of sensory overload."

John could see to his left the crew of pickers up were now streaming across the field, the Labradors were running full tilt towards where the birds had fallen. To John's eye, there was just a sea of green leafed lucern. It would take a dog's nose to find the fallen birds under the cover of the crop.

Sherlock had walked on toward the road ahead, so John followed. At one point, the doctor stumbled, as he stepped on something beneath the crop. He reached down and drew out a partridge- dead, but still warm. A black Lab had nearly reached him, so he called to it and handed it over. The dog took the burden gently into its mouth and charged back towards the picker up who was still half the field away.

When the shooting party reached the field edge, Sherlock slowed his pace, and hesitated, turning away from the road. At first John thought this was so he could catch up but when he reached him, Sherlock's eyes were closed against the bright sun low in the sky. He seemed to gather himself, and then turned so the two of them crossed together.

On the other side of the road, Mycroft was holding a five bar gate open for the members of the party.

As Sherlock passed him, John saw a slight frown of concern form on the elder Holmes' face.

"Sherlock?"

The younger man walked past his brother without making eye contact. "Just one more; I'm fine."

John had to step lively to catch up with him, as Sherlock accelerated his pace away from Mycroft. It was hard going across the ploughed earth in the first field. They used a stile to cross through a hawthorn hedgerow and into a second field. Now John saw the woods rising in a gentle slope both ahead and to the left of them. To the right, a lake came into view, and through the trees along its shore, John could now see the house, its grey stones catching the setting sun.

In front of them, the guests were approaching the pegs, which were set out in a crescent shape. This time, there was much more distance between them- more than ten meters, he guessed. And John spotted two cocker spaniels at one of the pegs in the middle.

"We've got the best position, John. Number five gets the benefit of both the Northpark Woods, but also birds off Fangrove Hill. They'll come high and fast, too. So, be sure to take all of the unused cartridges from the bag into your pocket. We'll go through quite a few if the beaters do their job properly, and the birds don't all lift at once."

Because the peg positions had rotated again, Mycroft was now at the extreme left side of the crescent, with Lady Caroline and Arabella behind him; two black Labs were patiently waiting by the peg.

Elizabeth was thirty feet or so to his right. David Wills took position at the curve of the crescent, where Sarah greeted him with a big smile. Mrs Berrisford waited for the Brigadier who was trying to knock some of the mud off the bottom of his boots, which he'd collected on his trudge through the muddy fields. He was a heavy man, so had nearly an inch of compacted mud to pick out before he'd feel sure of this footing.

"Do the same, John." The quiet baritone drew his attention back to where Sherlock was using a stick to clear the treads of his boots. "It's pretty slippery underfoot." As he saw to his own boots, using a stone flint he picked up from the ground, John could see to his right that Barbara was bent over her brother's boots. One of the bodyguards was sorting out Prince Rashid next to him. Only the former diplomat seemed ready; Lady Margaret was smoking again beside him.

Wallace came up the line of guns, speaking to each of them. He had Bella on a lead, and the chocolate Labrador's tail did not stop wagging. She was clearly delighted to be out of the Landrover and joining in the fun again. When he got to Sherlock, he asked "What do you reckon from the last drive?"

"Ten."

"Right, that tallies with what I could see from behind. You realise you're just twenty nine short?"

"It doesn't matter. I don't keep score."

"Yeah, but others do, Sherlock. Good luck." He started to move onto the Ashtons, but Bella put on the brakes, and sat down. She wanted to stay with Sherlock. The two cockers were giving her the eye, as if to say they didn't want to share.

"Bella, come." Wallace's tone was patient but firm. Bella ignored him and lay down. The slip lead tightened around her neck but she didn't budge.

"Bella, go on." Sherlock's tone was stern and the dog's ears went down. She did not resist as Wallace started off towards the Americans.

John gave him a sad smile. "I think you just broke her heart, Sherlock."

"She'll still have a heart. If she tried to pick up on this drive, it would probably give her a heart attack. The birds fall at a considerable distance- and it will take the peg dogs and the pickers up some time to clear the battlefield."

John thought it odd that he would call it that, but, on second thought, it seemed apt. The battle of wits involved infantry troops- the beaters- working behind the lines to drive the unsuspecting pheasants toward an ambush where flight became their only option for survival.

There was a lull- a period of waiting before the battle commenced. A few pigeons flew out from the hill top to John's right. He heard the sound of a distant beater's stick tapping on a tree- the wood-on-wood echoed through the trees in front of them.

And then it started. There was a distant shout from a beater deep in the woods- "Forward!" and the first group of pheasants broke cover over Elizabeth, who greeted them with both barrels. Then a brace came out to the far left and Mycroft took them. The next birds coming out of the trees then spotted the setting sun behind the guns, and veered away southwards, running the gauntlet of guns. John stopped watching anything other than Sherlock and, in synchrony, matched his need for a freshly loaded gun over the next ten minutes.

Through the gunfire, John could hear the beaters coming down the slopes through the trees; "Right!" and then a few seconds later "Left!" They were shouting to give advice to the guns about where the birds would break cover. They were now content to make as much noise as possible to lift the remaining birds.

" _WOODCOCK!"_  It was Wallace who raised the cry as a small dark bird burst out of the trees at the bottom of Fangrove Hill and started a ducking and diving erratic flight, weaving through the gunfire to Sherlock's right. Like a guided missile, its extraordinary flight evaded all efforts, and it flew on over the guns and into the setting sun. Sherlock didn't even get a shot; he and John were in the midst of a swap, just as the small bird whirred overhead.

More pheasants came and they got stuck in again.

" _WOODCOCK!"_  This time, it was Sir Martin who called it out. " _A BRACE!"_

John saw two of the dark birds, scarcely bigger than a crow come out of the trees, this time half way down the slope of Fangrove Hill, and start their incredibly acrobatic flight. Sherlock calmly raised his Purdey, and fired both barrels. The two birds fell, the first one cartwheeling overhead, the second stopped dead in mid-flight before plummeting to earth.

Sherlock handed back his weapon and took the freshly loaded one from John, as the Brigadier shouted, " _SHOT!_  praise echoed by the Prince, standing at the peg next to Ashton. He, too, had seen Sherlock's shot. But there was no time for John to think about it, as the next flush of pheasants took to the sky, and he got back down to work.

Seven minutes later, the beaters reached the edge of the field, and Mycroft whistled the two long blasts that signalled the end of the drive. Sherlock broke the gun open, and lifted the slip leads off the cockers, who shot off toward the fallen birds.

"That was amazing." John wasn't feeling the cold at all, despite the fact that the temperature was plummeting, now that the sun was nearly down. He checked his watch- 4.23. They'd been shooting for almost twenty minutes. As he unloaded the two unused cartridges from the gun, his shoulder gave a serious twinge of complaint. He started to put the gun into its leather sleeve, but Sherlock shook his head.

"Leave it out for a little while, John. It needs to cool down." He was bending over collecting cartridges. Rollo appeared with the first pheasant- a huge cock, with long tail feathers, so big that it nearly dwarfed the little dog, who was struggling to carry the weight. He got to Sherlock's side and lifted it to his hand. Sherlock took it and the dog was off again, before he could be praised.

The pickers up were now in action, too. They would need to be. John had no idea how many birds the whole gun line had taken, but he had counted twenty six empty cartridges.

Wallace came down the gun line with Bella on the lead. "You're a bloody marvel, Sherlock Holmes. You don't shoot for years and then you show up and do that. Well, there were at least three witnesses, so you're in the club, boy. Well done." John wasn't sure what that meant; if he had understood what Wallace had said before the drive started, Sherlock needed to get twenty nine on this drive to equal the record. He almost hated to tell the man that he only had twenty six empty cartridges.

The Scotsman looked down at Bella. "Let her do the honours, Sherlock. Just the two. A fitting way to retire, I should say."

Sherlock looked at the old girl, who was almost quivering with excitement. Then he nodded and took the lead from Wallace's hand, slipping it over the chocolate Lab's head. "Bella…find the  _WOODCOCK."_

He gave her the hand signal to go and she lumbered off, much slower than the two spaniels. Sherlock explained to John. "Cockers will pick up anything that has been shot; usually the closest to the peg first. But Labradors have a much wider retrieving vocabulary. She knows the different between seven different species of bird by scent and I can direct her to pick up just the woodcock."

As if to prove his point, Bella ran right by two downed pheasants and headed off toward the field edge, then started to quarter the ground with her nose, in and out of the grassy verge before the trees. She stopped and, with a frantic tail wag, went head first into a tussock of grass, emerging carrying something in her mouth. An arthritic run back to Sherlock and she lifted her head to his hand.

"Thank you, Bella." The dog released the bird from her soft mouth and he took it. "Well done, girl. Now, find the  _woodcock_." Off she went again.

" _Scolopax rusticola_ , John- the Eurasian woodcock. A wading bird that favours a woodland habitat; its principal food source is earthworms. Just look at the beak and the feathers. Really extraordinary fliers." He handed the small bird back to John. Unlike a pheasant, this bore no resemblance to a chicken. It had thin spindly grey legs, a sharply pointed beak that was way too long for its body size. He held it in his hand – no more than a foot in length from the tip of the beak to its short tail, and at least a quarter of that length was the beak. It was reddish brown from the top, but sandier coloured feathers on its breast. Superbly camouflaged, he could see how on a forest floor, it would be virtually invisible.

Bella had reappeared, and was coming across the field. John could hear her huffing as she came closer. Short of breath and a little clumsily, she presented the second of the woodcock to Sherlock's hand.

"Thank You." That command led her to release the bird and she sat down. Sherlock handed John the second one and then turned back to Bella. This time he knelt down so he was closer to her. "Well done, Bella. Now it's game over. Let's go home. We're both finished with this shooting business."

Before John could ask him what he meant, the other guns and guests started to gather around; the Brigadier was the first to offer his congratulations. "Well, that was fine shooting. I've never had the pleasure of seeing a right-and-left. What a glorious way to end the day's work." Christine Berrisford gave John a beaming smile- "You had your work cut out for you, Captain Watson. Like a bloody machine and you kept up with him all the way. You must be exhausted."

Then the Ashtons arrived and Barbara blew him a kiss; the Prince said something in Arabic and Sherlock gave a shy, slightly pained smile, but no reply. As the other guns and guests came together there was a lot of high spirited conversation. Everyone had managed to shoot well on the last drive and the volume of voices rose as the twilight started to take hold. Dogs were still working on bringing in the birds, and by the looks of it would be going on for some time. Sherlock had edged to the side of the group, and was resisting the attentions of Lady Margaret. John found himself trying to explain to David Wills and Sarah Barnard what had happened to get everyone so excited. He wasn't sure why woodcock caused such a reaction, but clearly they were very difficult to hit, so he guessed Sherlock had done something amazing. "But, I think he's been amazing from the start, and it's been terrific to be a part of it."

Nik Green came over to John and clapped his hands together in applause. "The count won't be official for a while- birds are still being brought in and we'll have to gather the cartridge numbers, but you're one hell of a fast learner, Doctor Watson." Wallace walked by and said "I'll relieve you of those two woodcock now, if I may; that was fine work; you make a good team."

John handed over the two birds and felt a bit embarrassed at all the attention. "I just kept up with him. He's the one who did the shooting, not me." He looked around to see if he could find Sherlock, then spotted the tall figure walking off towards the lake, with Bella back on a lead.

Mycroft came over to the group last, and called out over the conversation. "We are only five hundred yards from the house, so I suggest we all walk from here. It's quicker than getting the cars over the fields. If you follow my brother, in the corner of the field there is a gate, and on the other side of the wall before the lake, you will find the drive that goes back to the courtyard. Tea and coffee will be ready for you in the Great Hall so we can all warm up." He and Lady Caroline led the way. Arabella was looking cold; hugging herself. John offered her his coat.

"You'll freeze."

"No, I won't. I've been working hard over the past half hour and got plenty warm enough. You go on." He slipped it onto her shoulders, and stretched. He shifted the gun sleeve strap to his right shoulder; his left was going to remind him of its existence for some hours to come. He set off after Sherlock in the gathering twilight.


	20. Chapter 20

When John got through the gate, he was following others down a wide gravel track through the trees. It was lit with small lights every ten feet or so, making it easy to see the house in the distance. He scanned those walking ahead, and realised that Sherlock was not amongst them. A quick glance behind him showed no sign of his flatmate either.

Arabella was walking beside him, snug in his jacket. She saw him looking around, and then stopped at John's perplexed look.

"Where's he got to? I could have sworn he was walking ahead of us."

She sniggered. "Done a runner, then? Probably off somewhere smoking. I could kill for a cigarette right now."

"Lady Arabella, you should not be smoking." John remembered her mother's comment at lunchtime.

"Don't. Don't lecture me and you can stuff the 'lady' crap. My name's Ara. I hate the whole thing- sounds like some toffee-nosed Victorian."

She was blunt to the point of rudeness, but she had the right to choose, so he just said. "Okay,  _Ara_. I need to find him."

"Then check out the temple down by the lake. That's the path to it over there." She pointed to a gap in the hedge.

"How do you know that's where he went?"

"I don't, but it makes sense if he was trying to find somewhere to have a fag where his brother and you won't find him. I used it this morning after breakfast. Sneaked one from the Foreign Office cow- she wouldn't give me one, so I nicked it when she was scarfing her eggs."

"Aren't you on Sherlock's side then, as a fellow smoker?"

She shrugged. "He was looking a little peeky. Smokes will just make it worse, whatever's bothering him."

John could only nod. The teenager had seen what he'd noticed, too. "Right. I'm off down that path. I'll be back at the house in a while- just give the coat to Mrs Walters when you're done with it; she'll get it back to my room."

"Ta- it's nice and toasty. Smells like a man, too." She gave a slight giggle. "Not in a bad way; don't get me wrong- it's…interesting. Laters." She went off down the track, her long straight blonde hair shining down the back of his jacket.

He went through the hedge.  _A temple?_ He tried to follow the path through the shrubbery, but it was getting darker, and he wondered if the teenager had just been having some fun sending him on a wild goose chase. Then ahead of him he heard the sound of someone vomiting. He increased his pace to the point where he was nearly at a jog, coming around a large laurel bush to a clearing. Sherlock was bent over, using one hand on a white-trunked birch tree to steady himself as he threw up again. Bella was standing beside him, whining softly.

"Sherlock!" John was by his side but didn't reach out this time, not wanting to provoke another flinch.

The tall man straightened up and groaned. "John….don't…just be quiet."

"It can't be something you ate, because you haven't eaten all day. Are you coming down with a virus or some bug?"

"Please…don't talk. Noise hurts."

John tried to contain his natural instinct as a doctor to ask questions so he could diagnose the problem. His wish not to inflict pain on his friend warred with his medical concern. In the end, he compromised with a very quiet, "Why?"

Sherlock's head was bowed, his eyes closed. He fumbled in his jacket to find a handkerchief, wiped his mouth, then took a shaky breath. "Synaesthesia."

"Describe it." John whispered his question.

Sherlock's breathing was uneven, almost panting. "You speak orange, John… The scent of you …is in the key of E Major. And I am tasting more than bile…there's a cinnamon taste to the twilight. It…happens when I shoot- it's too much. Starting to affect my vestibular balance and sense of where my body ends and other…stuff begins. I need to shut down."

"Let me help you back to the house."

"Nooo…" it came out as a whispered plea. "Can't move…can't face it- the light will be too much. Photophobia; noise, people fussing- CAN'T!"

"Painful? Allodynia?"

"Getting there." This was panted through a clenched jaw.

John knew that this meant ordinary sensation was becoming painful. "What can I do to help?" This was whispered too, but Sherlock still flinched.

"Stop… please." Bella whined again, provoking a groan from Sherlock. "Lime green. Take her away, John. Put her…in my room. Need to stay here in the dark for a while."

"I can't leave you like this. I'll go get a car."

"No!" This was followed by another groan. "My own voice is like a knife through the eyeball. Just stop…leave me alone. I need to be alone. No noise, no light. I will sit in there and ride this out." He gestured vaguely at the temple, then pushed off from the birch tree and stumbled toward the little building. "Have to shut down …maybe an hour…should be enough."

With Bella trailing behind, John went with him into the columned building. It was open on three sides, and facing the lake. Against the back stone wall was a wooden bench the whole length of the wall. Sherlock lowered himself onto it and then swung his legs up, so he was stretched out. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. "Go." His eyes were closed, but he waved John away.

"I'll stay with you then." He shivered in the cold air that was coming off the lake.

His words provoked a groan. "John, your voice sounds of maroon, and you smell like a car horn blaring in my ear. Bella tastes like curdled milk. Just you being here with the dog _hurts_. Give me an hour and I'll be alright."

John picked up Bella's lead and backed out to the edge of the columned portico. Sherlock seemed to calm; his breathing became more regular. "Keep going, John. I can still feel your presence."

The doctor was torn, but decided to give Sherlock some time and space. He'd take the dog back and get a coat- and something warmer for Sherlock. Maybe bring him back a cup of tea. He hurried back up the path to the gap in the hedge and then up the well-lit path. When he got to the House front door, he sneaked in and was grateful to find the entrance hall empty. He could hear the crowd in the Great Hall to his left, and wondered how he would get Bella up the stairs without anyone spotting him. He re-traced his steps along a back corridor to where he found the staircase up from the kitchen into the north wing. He helped Bella's slow progress up, encouraging her when her arthritic back legs stalled the dog. He was just at the level of the first floor when he heard voices coming down the stairs- it sounded like Mrs Walters, speaking to one of the staff. He ducked out of the narrow staircase, and went along the corridor, aiming for the big stone staircase at the end. He'd just turned the corner and got Bella up the first three steps when a stentorian voice called out.

"Doctor Watson. Dogs are  _not_  allowed in the house." Mycroft was standing at the bottom of the stairs looking up with a stern look on his face. More quietly, he ordered, "Bring her to me and I will get Wallace to collect her and take her back to the kennels."

John sighed at being caught red-handed, and looked down at the old dog, then back at Mycroft. "Sherlock told me to take her up to his room. I think he may be in need of some non-human company later on."

The elder Holmes had come up the stairs, studying the doctor's face. "Where is my brother?" There was the mildest undercurrent of concern in his tone.

"I left him by the lake in that strange little temple. He just wanted to be left alone, in the dark. I'm on my way back there when I can collect my coat and something warm for him to drink."

Mycroft sighed. "I feared as much." He seemed to hesitate for a moment.

John needed to know more. "I'm his friend, Mycroft, but I'm also a doctor. He's got a bad dose of synaesthesia and it's heading into allodynia."

Mycroft nodded. "He suffers from a sensory processing disorder; always has. Shooting stretches the limits of his endurance. And today he was on particularly sparkling form- but it takes a toll."

"Is that why he hasn't shot for so many years? You could have told me, Mycroft; I wouldn't have accepted the invitation; I wouldn't have put pressure on him to come if I had known."

Bella sat down on the stairs, listening to the two men's conversation. Mycroft looked at her with a frown on his face. "He hasn't shot for six years because the last time he did, he was high on cocaine at the time. He claimed it helped him focus, but I forbade him returning to it until he was clean."

Whatever John was expecting to hear, it wasn't that. "Bloody hell."

"Don't pretend you were not aware of my brother's previous drug history. You were there at Lestrade's 'pretend drugs bust' on the first night you moved into the flat. He hasn't used for nearly three years, but he has not forgiven me for banning him."

John had wanted to learn more about Sherlock and Mycroft, and he was doing just that.  _Even though I suspected as much, it's still a shock._ "Is that why you changed your mind about wanting him here?"

The older man gave him an icy glare. "Trying to learn deduction, are you? No, that is not the reason why I would rather he wasn't here."

Bella whined at the tone in his voice. Mycroft looked back down at her. "Go on, then. Put her upstairs; just don't let her out of his room. We do get guests who are allergic to dogs."

John started up the stairs and then stopped, looking down at Mycroft. "So, when he's like this, what should I do? Is there specific medication? You must have experience of it; what helps him get past it?"

"Do as he says. Leave him alone. He'll be fine out there. When he's ready, he will re-join us. There's too much going on here for him to miss out for long." There was an acerbic tone to the comment, but he didn't elaborate as he carried on down the stairs to the ground floor. John went on up, slowly, as Bella's shaky legs were challenged by the cold stone.


	21. Chapter 21

"Did you find him?" Ara pounced on him as soon as John returned from depositing Bella in Sherlock's room, joining the rest of the party in the Great Hall for tea and crumpets. The huge stone fireplace was filled with a crackling log fire, and the big room was warm and inviting after being outdoors all day.

"Yeah."

"S'okay?" This was mumbled around a bite of hot buttered muffin.

Her manners made John smile, but at least she was eating something. That made him think of Sherlock. "I hope so."

The girl flicked her straight blonde hair over her shoulder and smirked. "Told you to piss off and leave him alone, did he?"

"Not exactly" was all he could manage before Mrs Walters appeared at his elbow. "Doctor Watson, can I get you a cup of tea, or would you prefer coffee? We've made a special pot with single estate Arabica beans from Yemen, brought by Prince Rashid for the guests' enjoyment."

For a moment, John was torn. Drinking and eating in the warmth when Sherlock was out in the dark and cold…bothered him. His indecision must have been visible on his face, because when he looked up, he saw that Mycroft had joined them. "Of course he will, Mrs Walters. He has at least an hour before he is needed elsewhere. Coffee, for once, rather than tea, John. You will not regret it, I can assure you." She bustled off, without even waiting for John to agree.

Ara looked first at Mycroft and then back at John, sensing an unspoken exchange going on. She cocked her head at them, as if trying to hear what they weren't putting into words. "Blimey; between the two of you, it's a wonder Sherlock ever gets to decide something for himself; maybe he's just fed up with the company. I know I am." She turned around and marched over to the fireplace, turning her back on the two men.

John had to bite his lip to stop from laughing at the look on Mycroft's face. He clearly wasn't used to being spoken to like that. John couldn't resist asking, "Was Sherlock as bolshie as that when he was her age? He's sharp enough with you as an adult; I can't imagine what he was like as a teenager."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "I'm not sure that one could say he's 'mellowed' at all over the years. Now, if you will excuse me, I have other guests to whom I must attend." He crossed the room to speak the David Wills and Sarah Barnard, who were in a conversation with Elizabeth Ffoukes.

John was still smirking at Mycroft's discomfort when Mrs Walters returned with his cup of coffee. "Now Doctor, come to the table and let me tempt you; we have a range of cakes, biscuits, crumpets and muffins. After all your hard work, you need something to keep the wolf from the door until supper."

As she spoke, he took a sip of the black coffee, which slipped down his throat in a velvety warm caress.  _Wow- this is the Rolls Royce of coffee._  He'd spent a lifetime drinking instant coffee, consumed in a rush, grabbed from a machine at a hospital or over-brewed filter coffee from mess halls in army camps. This was…delicious. He allowed himself to be taken over to the table, where he was seized upon by Sir Martin Whetle, standing with the Brigadier.

"Watson- just the man. The Gamekeeper will do the forms, and we've given our witness statements. "

For a moment, John's brain just stuttered. "Witness statements? What crime has been committed?"

The Brigadier roared with laughter. "You aren't aware of the Woodcock Club? My good man, there are fewer than 1500 guns in the UK who've ever managed a brace of woodcock with right-and-left barrel without pause or lowering the gun. It's a great honour, and Sherlock Holmes is joining an elite group of crack shots. All that's left is the photo of him with the two birds and it's done."

He gave it all of two seconds' thought before he knew what Sherlock's reaction would be. "He won't want the fuss. It's not important to him."

The two men looked momentarily confused by his reply. The diplomat responded, "Well, then lucky for him it isn't just up to him. We can apply on his behalf. No reason to be shy about his achievement." The retired general seemed to bristle a bit. "We won't tolerate any false modesty on his part."

John smirked. "Well, that's not usually his problem, I can assure you. But I still think you'd better ask him."

Her back might have been turned toward the men, but Ara had been listening to the conversation. She turned to them, her expression no longer one of bored indifference.

"I can take the photo."

The Brigadier and the diplomat looked at her as if she were an alien, green with waving antennae.

She ignored them and focused on John. "I can. I brought my Canon SLR. Wanted to take photos on the shoot, but the Prince's bouncer got all huffy and said I couldn't, because he thought they'd end up on Facebook. I'm not  _that_  kind of photographer- I don't take  _snaps_ ," she said dismissively. "It's what I do; what I want to do as a career. And, I'm good at informal portraits. Sherlock's face is … unusual. It's interesting."

It was the most animated he'd seen the teenager. Her eyes were lit up and she was clearly excited by the idea. He hated to puncture that enthusiasm, but he knew how much Sherlock loathed having his photo taken. "He won't agree, Ara."

"I bet you I can get him to agree to the photo. You just watch; I've managed to talk some pretty reluctant people to pose for me. I've even got one of Prince William, and he  _loathes_  photographers, given what they did to his mum."

Sir Martin's wife had joined him in time to hear the end of the conversation. Lady Margaret had in the course of the day been converted from a critic into a fan of Sherlock's, so she stepped in. "Lady Arabella, if you can convince him to do the photo, I'll certainly take a copy of it. I know someone on the staff of  _Country Life_ ; they'd just love the story, especially if it came with a photo. And, if you are serious about it as a career, then the publicity will do your reputation no end of good, my dear."

John didn't want to encourage the teenager, because when Sherlock turned her down, she'd be upset. "Lady Margaret, all that might be true, but Sherlock  _really_ doesn't like having his picture taken."

Ara looked at him crossly. "You can stop trying to be protective. I know you think you're his friend, but you don't have to try to make excuses for him or try to explain him."

John smiled, "as if I could. It's just that when he disagrees with something or someone, he can be very rude."

"I know. Mum warned me. He's different. I'm okay with that. In fact, I think it's…interesting. Kinda cool not to feel obliged to be  _polite_  all the time." The teenager continued, "She said he doesn't want friends; that isn't how his brain works. As if I wanted to be friends; parents always get the wrong idea." She rolled her eyes.

John was curious about that.  _How does Lady Caroline know about Sherlock?_ "Has your mother met Sherlock before yesterday?"

"Nope. That's what the weekend was supposed to be about. But that's a little difficult with all these other people around."

Before John could think that comment through, both his and Ara's attention was caught by a rather heated exchange going on behind them. Razi al Farkri said something in a harsh guttural tone, provoking a rather brutal retort from Jimmy that sounded full of anger. But he had no idea what they were saying because it was in Arabic. John and the teenager watched as Farkri stormed out of the room. Across the Great Hall, in the opposite corner, Prince Rashid watched with a surprised look on his face. Mycroft, with whom he had been speaking, also eyed the departure rather suspiciously.

Ashton looked annoyed at the attention that was being paid to him, but his sister rescued him by appearing at his shoulder and giving him a big smile and a gentle laugh. "Oh, Jimmy; have you been living up to your usual 'bad American' image? How many times have I told you that not everyone in every culture can understand your brand of humour? Now you'll have to apologise to him over dinner."

For a second, the American's eyes narrowed, but then he played along. "Well, golly- I guess you're right. I shouldn't expect him to get my jokes. He's never even been to the US, so I can't blame him for misunderstanding me." It was said just loud enough to be heard by those who were watching him, but not so loud that it attracted the attention of those who were enjoying the food and conversation.

John took a surreptitious look at his watch.

"Time flies when you're having fun, Doc." Ara had seen him checking the time. Lady Margaret and her husband gave her an odd glance, not understanding her point.

"Yes, well, on that note…" John gave an apologetic smile. "I will see you all later, but any ideas when we are supposed to assemble?"

Lady Margaret replied, "I understand we are gathering in the drawing room for a drink at 7.30, and supper is at 8 o'clock."

He made his excuses to Ara and the couple, nodded to the Brigadier and then slipped out of the room. He went up the back stairs to his bedroom to collect his coat, then back down to the ground floor and out into the cold night air.

oOo

Just under two hours later, John was back in his room, starting to get dressed. His search for Sherlock had proved utterly fruitless. When he got back to the temple, there was no sign of his flatmate. He'd been surprised by that; when he'd left Sherlock seemed incapable of moving without sensory overload, but it would seem that he must have made a reasonable recovery. The doctor returned to the house, wondering if they'd somehow passed in the dark, but there was no sign of Sherlock, and Mrs Walters said she'd not seen him.

John checked the bedroom, only to find Bella stretched out on the bed, sound asleep. There was no sign that Sherlock had been back to the room. So, the doctor decided it was time for that bath. However, what he had anticipated as a nice long soak for tired muscles became instead an exercise in trying to figure out what was going on with Sherlock, and the various guests.

It was confusing. As the steam rose from the enormous tub on its clawed feet, he kept wondering what Sherlock would be making of the various links between the guests and Eastern Europe. The diplomat's son was based in Romania. He'd heard tense words between Sir Martin and the American, both of whom had known each other in Brussels, and then between the American and Farkri- not just in the Great Hall, but also when they were in the woods, before the penultimate drive. Sherlock said he would explain that- but had not done so yet. Then there was the unrequited lover, Sarah Barnard who fancied the EU civil servant, but Wills was rather cavalier in his attitude, willing to flirt with Barbara Ashton.

And how it could possibly be relevant that both the Americans spoke Spanish and had been in Mexico? Well, he was struggling to put it together.

Just where Lady Caroline and her daughter fit in, John hadn't a clue. Although they had not met Sherlock before, the countess had been warned by someone, presumably Mycroft, enough about Sherlock to know he wouldn't exactly behave normally.  _Why_ the elder Holmes would do that was not at all clear.

He sighed. Far from relaxing him, sitting in the bath wondering what it all meant and where the hell Sherlock might be- it was just tightening up his anxiety even more. He pulled out the brass plug on a chain, and got out. He enjoyed the huge white fluffy towels- something about a serious laundry service that brought out the best in a towel. After that, it was back into his bedroom to get his mess uniform out of the wardrobe. That's when he realised that he'd folded his white shirt rather badly and there was a big crease in just the wrong place for the cut of his uniform jacket. He got dressed in his casual clothes again and went downstairs with it, in the hope of finding Mrs Walters, who could point him in the direction of an iron. If he was going to put the full kit on, it had better be right. While some might not notice, he was sure the Brigadier and his wife would.  _Military- we're always thinking about inspections._

His shirt was whisked away from him and he was told it would be back in his room in fifteen minutes, so he went back up. He felt the stubble on his chin and decided to shave, grabbing his electric razor and heading for the bathroom and its mirror over the sink. It was still very steamy and he had to use a hand towel to wipe the condensation and mist off the mirror. Even so, he could hardly see himself- it was hung rather high on the wall.

"One of the disadvantages of your height, John."

The doctor nearly dropped the razor. "Bloody hell, Sherlock!" He spun around and realised that Sherlock was in the bathtub, even though all he could see over the rim was the top of his head with a few dark curls. Then even this slid down further, and John realised that his flatmate was now completely submerged under the water.

"Sorry- I had no idea you were in here; are you alright?" He wondered if Sherlock could hear him under water.

The head reappeared, with a splash. "Of course. Why shouldn't I be?" He sounded a little indignant at the question.

"Well, the last time I saw you, you could hardly stand up and you were throwing up. So, forgive me, if I wondered. After an hour, I went back to find you but you were missing."

"You didn't need to do that. I told you I would be fine, just needed a time-out."

John sniffed.  _Why does he always make me feel defensive for being concerned about him?_  "Right. I'll give you some privacy then."

"There's no need to be huffy. You have no mirror in your bedroom, so use this one."

John turned back to the bathroom mirror, which had fogged up again in the heat and steam coming off of Sherlock's bath water. It didn't matter- he'd shaved plenty of times in the camps of Afghanistan without a light or a mirror, just by touch. He switched on the razor and started to shave. "There's something about the case I should tell you about. You missed an interesting argument over tea- Ashton and the Prince's aide had a go at each other- it was in Arabic, so no idea what it was about. Actually, that reminds me, do you speak Arabic or did I just mishear you talking to Prince Rashid?"

"Yes, I do speak Arabic, but no- I doubt Farkri and Ashton were speaking it. More likely Farsi. "

John stopped his razor. "Why?"

"Because the Prince's aide is almost certainly an undercover member of the Iranian revolutionary guard, sent to spy on the Dubai royal family. And he and Ashton would not want anyone else to overhear them. I think they were arguing in the Sparrite woods when they were behind us. That was definitely Farsi they were talking then."

"Just  _how_  many languages do you speak, Sherlock?"

"That depends on what you mean by 'speak'. I can converse in twelve. I can read classical Greek and Latin, but haven't had a reason to speak it since I was at school. I can understand a few more."

"But,  _Arabic?_ And  _Farsi_? Why?"

"The former was very useful for studying the history of science and philosophy, John. Without Arabic, we would know almost nothing of the Greeks. And Farsi uses the script of Arabic, although it has its own grammar and vocabulary, so why not learn it? I can't actually speak it very well, but I can read it because it's useful both for scientific manuscripts-and the best poetry ever written was in Persian."

John switched his razor back on and tried to get his head around how his flatmate had talked about science and poetry in the same breath. He was  _really_  learning things about Sherlock that he had never even considered before. Behind him, John could hear Sherlock was now washing his hair. An extraordinary scent wafted up into the room. "That's not your usual shampoo."

"No. This was made in Florence, at the Pharmacy of the Santa Maria Novella. It's a private mix, with orris root and honey. It was my mother's favourite, and she had a vast supply. I know where Mycroft hides it and liberated some. Reminds me of my childhood." Sherlock turned the water back on, and lifted the hand shower from its cradle, then flipped the lever so he could use it to rinse his hair.

"I thought you didn't like showers."

"I don't. But once I'm already up to my neck in a bath, the sensory impact is dulled. And it cleans my hair really well. Maybe we should ask Mrs Hudson if she'd consider installing one." He turned the water off and leaned back. "It's a shame I didn't hear that argument- I think Ashton knows I speak Arabic, but he might not have guessed about the Farsi. Pity Mycroft didn't add that one to his list."

"Maybe Mrs Ffoukes understands it?"

"Doubt it. She is rumoured to have done field work in the Far East, but that was ages ago. More an analyst." He sniggered. "Seems an occupational hazard- the more senior one becomes in the intelligence world, the more office and desk bound they become. Mycroft loathed being in the field. Called it 'leg work'; he was much happier hiring minions to do the real business."

John finished shaving, rubbing his chin and face to make sure he'd got it all. "Remember you asked me to check out Sarah and David Wills over lunch?"

"Needn't bother, John. I figured that one out myself. She's trying too hard. He's keeping her at arm's length. That much is obvious, but what you might not have realised is that she's one of Elizabeth Ffoukes' lot. That fact is  _very_ interesting."

"How did you deduce  _that_?"

"Sarah is obviously quite self-conscious having to perform in front of her boss. At first, I thought she was working for Mycroft. But he's not watching her half as much as Elizabeth is. So, it's not exactly rocket science, John. She's been told to try to figure out what the connection is between him and Sir Martin, and the Americans."

"That reminds me- the answer to your other lunch-time questions- another couple of puzzle pieces. Both have been to Mexico recently; Barbara's tan was got on a Yucatan beach, her brother's on a sunbed because, according to her, 'he was in meetings all the time.' And they both speak Spanish."

Sherlock was now washing, if the splashing was anything to go by. John decided to brush his teeth. He rarely had black coffee, and as nice as it had been, he was always conscious that it could stain the enamel. So he set to it.

"So, the Ashtons are the American connection with the Mexican drug cartels."

John stopped brushing. "R yoo shoor?" Around a mouthful of toothpaste foam, the question came out garbled.

"Yes, John, I am sure. When I was on my way back to the house, I overheard Ashton, talking on his mobile. Only got one half of the conversation, but it was most interesting. He's smart enough not to use the phone in the house; Mycroft's security team would have nailed that instantly, tracing the call and getting both sides. But his side was most illuminating, and he had no idea I was there."

John spat and rinsed. "Care to share?"

Sherlock sniggered. "Careful, John. Barbara's Americanisms are rubbing off on you."

"Then pass the information on, oh, enlightened one."

"Ashton was on the phone to someone he considers his superior; I could tell by the way he spoke. Said that person should 'contact the consultant; this was way out of control and something was going to crack soon.' Then he said that if he didn't get any advice soon, he'd take matters into his own hands because there was too much at stake. Don't let that bland exterior fool you, John; he's not stupid."

"I never said he was."

"No, but you thought it, didn't you? It's a common mistake. Americans sound so gormless that it is easy to underestimate them. The lack of finesse can lure you into thinking they're harmless. And Barbara is just as bad; no, actually, I think she's the smarter one of the pair. You just have to stop thinking with parts of your anatomy that are south of your brain, John."

The doctor raised his eyes to glare into the mirror, but realised it was a wasted effort, because Sherlock would be lying in the bath facing away from him.  _No, correct that._  Even through the mist on the mirror John could see that Sherlock had stood up in the bath and pulled the plug. John grabbed one of the towels off the pile and shoved it at him before beating a hasty retreat back into his bedroom. His flatmate's attitude towards his own nudity had been one of the surprises of the flatshare- totally unselfconscious. While John was no prude, he'd had to endure cramped quarters with too many men in army conditions, and he enjoyed being able to bath in private.  _Too much information, Sherlock._


	22. Chapter 22

John straightened the line of his mess jacket. The pleasant surprise was that it no longer felt as snug as the last time he had donned the short black jacket with its wide red lapels and cuffs. In the nine months since moving to Baker Street, he'd lost the weight he'd put on after being so depressed by his discharge. Even with physical therapy, before Sherlock, his shoulder injury and psychosomatic limp limited the amount of exercise he was able to do. Now that the limp was gone and he spent time following the consulting detective across London in pursuit of criminals, the red waistcoat under the jacket fit him like a glove again, and the jacket button did up without a struggle. His now crisply ironed white dress shirt with his regimental cufflinks added to the picture.

He'd always liked the RAMC mess kit- not gaudy, just tasteful. And the short jacket did wonders for making him look taller, not to mention the black trousers with their thin red stripe. He'd thought about leaving his medals in their box at the flat, but when Sherlock said it was likely that another military man would be amongst the guest list, he'd taken them out: the Accumulated Service medal with its green, purple, and gold ribbon; the Afghanistan medal with bar, and the MC, with its silver cross hanging from a white and purple ribbon. Although it reminded him of his injury and the traumatic circumstances in which he earned it, wearing the MC was an important part of paying tribute to the soldiers who had not survived the ambush.

When he was dressed, just before 7.30pm, he'd popped his head into Sherlock's bedroom.

"I'm not ready yet, John. You go down first. We need eyes in the room. I've still got things to do and I have to dry my hair."

"You're stalling."

Sherlock sniffed. "You know I loathe this kind of social gathering. If it weren't for the case, you wouldn't find me anywhere near the Drawing Room. It brings back far too many unpleasant memories of childhood, when I was forced to attend tedious family gatherings."

So, John was standing by himself outside the door of the grand drawing room, where the guests were assembling for drinks before supper. He took a deep breath and walked in. A quick glance showed him that most of the other guests were already there. Only Lady Caroline and Ara were missing- and, of course, Sherlock. From across the room Mycroft caught his eye, with a questioning look. John smiled and nodded, so the elder Holmes's shoulders visibly relaxed and he returned to his conversation with the Brigadier and his wife, Christine. A waiter appeared at John's elbow, and asked him whether he would like a drink.

"What's on offer?" John asked, without thinking.

The reply came quickly. "Anything you'd like- wine, beer, spirits, a cocktail or something non-alcoholic."

He settled for a gin and tonic. "Tall, with only a little bit of gin but  _lots_  of tonic and ice." He didn't want alcohol to dull his senses just yet, if Sherlock was relying on him to see things. And there was plenty to see. To start with, the Prince was in splendid Arab robes- black camel wool  _bisht_ , with gold piping on the shoulders, over an ankle length white  _thawb_. On his head the traditional white  _ghutra_  and the black cord circlet. Rafik, his aide, was equally resplendent, and as he watched, the men exchanging smiles and gentle touches on the arm. John tried to understand how an Iranian revolutionary guard could infiltrate the royal entourage so easily that he was clearly accepted as a friend as well as colleague.

The women in the room had taken the opportunity to dress for the occasion, too. Mrs Berrisford was in a dark green dress, with a lacy bodice over a full length chiffon skirt. Sarah Barnard was wearing a short dress, but it was covered in eye-catching sequins that glittered in the soft light of the room. She was next to David Wills, in black tie; his dinner suit looked the sort that got trotted out on a regular basis for yet another diplomatic function in Brussels. In contrast, Sir Martin's suit looked much older, a style that might have been fashionable twenty years ago or more. And Lady Margaret's navy blue long gown was equally dated, although attractive. At least she was still slim and had not become matronly in her older age. John enjoyed seeing the Brigadier in full mess kit- almost a mirror image of his own, the scarlet red jacket with black lapels and cuffs of a General Staff officer.

His eye sought and then found the two Americans. Barbara was next to her brother, who was leaning up against the fireplace, with a tall glass of what appeared to be lager in his hand. He wore a DJ with rather flashy wide satin lapels and a brightly coloured cummerbund- a plaid that no Scot would have ever been caught dead wearing. His sister was wearing an off the shoulders gown that displayed her tan to perfection- and left very little to the imagination, as he realised the cranberry coloured skirt was slit up to her thigh. With lipstick to match, she looked like a red carpet screen actress. As soon as she saw him, her face lit up and she came over to him.

"Well, look at you, John." She was carrying a cocktail- he guessed it was a cosmopolitan, and wondered whether she had chosen the drink to match her dress's colour, or the dress to match her favourite drink. She cast an admiring look at his mess uniform. "I'd almost forgotten how gorgeous military men can look when they wear their proper gear. Jimmy only takes me to the boring receptions full of men in their dull business suits."

He felt a brief touch at his elbow, and turned to see Elizabeth Ffoukes. "Doctor Watson, or, rather, Captain, given the uniform, may I have a word with you, please?"

Barbara gave him a little movie star pout, but followed it with a smile. "I'll let you go, but only if you promise to sit next to me at dinner. Is it a deal?"

He nodded, hoping that Sherlock would not have other plans for him. He wouldn't mind the company of the beautiful woman, even if he knew she was somehow linked to the crime syndicates behind the Kentish Town knife wars. Perhaps Sherlock would give him some interesting questions to ask of her.

Elizabeth took him to the side of the room, where they could speak without being overheard. "You and Sherlock have been avoiding me, Captain Watson." The woman who said this very quietly was scrutinising him carefully. Her satin evening jacket was a warm caramel colour, atop a below the knee black satin skirt. Tasteful and elegant, but not designed to attract attention. She waited as he decided what to say.

John gave a little shrug and a slightly sheepish smile. "Well, I am trying to forget my inane comments to you at breakfast when I didn't realise who you are. You must have thought my comments about Afghanistan to be…rather basic."

"On the contrary; they were quite refreshing. You'd be surprised how often I am bombarded by highly technical, detailed and ultimately self-interested commentaries. I found it interesting to hear about it from someone who does not have an agenda to push." Her dark eyes crinkled with amusement. Before he could answer, she continued. "I do hope that Sherlock has recovered from his…overstimulation. It would be a shame if he were to miss the last few opportunities for deductions."

Given what Sherlock had said about Ffoukes, John decided that he could be more direct. "All this, then- the guest list- is  _your_  idea? If you know about these people, then why bring them together, here?"

"I know little, suspect a great deal, but can prove nothing. If there was anything conclusive about any one of them, we would have moved more directly. We have too little evidence to question them legally. Even if we could, I'm not sure it would reveal anything because it's the relationship between them that is the interesting bit. We've been unable to put the pieces together. I was rather hoping that Sherlock might be able to help on that score."

Before John could comment on that idea, a loud burst of laughter made him realise that Barbara had lured her brother over to where David and Sarah were sitting.

Then the door into the room opened, and both of them turned, hoping it would be Sherlock. Instead, Lady Caroline entered, and Ara followed her in. The countess was wearing a teal blue long dress, which set off her height. It was tasteful, elegant and probably a designer label- it just whispered class. She'd put her honey blonde hair up into a sophisticated French roll.  Lady Caroline looked every inch the lady as she went over to Mycroft. John realised she was apologising for being late, and she tilted her head towards her daughter, as if in explanation.

Ara's outfit was…interesting, to put it mildly. The dress was very short, patterned black and white- vaguely reminiscent of camouflage, with studs, sequins and cut outs showing bare flesh. She wore black tights and a pair of high black ankle shoes that looked like a military boot but with a stiletto heel. It was somewhere between high designer fashion and tough girl with attitude. Oddly, it worked for her. She scanned the room, interrupted her scowl to give a tiny smirk to John, before moving on. He realised she was looking for Sherlock.  _Aren't we all?_  was John's reaction.

She drifted over to the fireplace and plonked herself down on one of the chairs. Gentle laughter emerged from the Arab contingent in the corner, and John wondered if it was in reference to Ara. He hoped not. He wondered what he would have made of being forced to enter a room full of adults with not a single person his own age- like as not, he'd have refused. That Ara was here spoke volumes of her confidence in herself. He wondered what Lady Caroline had used to entice her to join them.

"Mrs Ffoukes, do you have children?"

She shook her head. "I have a career that made it rather difficult." She then looked over at the teenager. "I am sure we will have more to talk about once Sherlock is here, but if I'm not mistaken you are thinking that we should really go rescue a young lady who looks like she wants to be anywhere but here."

He nodded, and the two started over to where Ara had shifted in the chair so that her feet in those extraordinary boots were being warmed by the fire. The scowl didn't lift and she didn't look up at them. "Go away, Doctor Watson. And take the Director General with you. I don't want company."

"Call me John. There are enough titles in the room that one less would be an improvement."

Ara didn't even acknowledge Elizabeth or shift her gaze from the fire, but he did see a smirk. He finished his g-and-t and put the glass down on the side table, then came to lean against the mantel so he could see her more clearly. Elizabeth sat down in the chair alongside Ara. "And my name is Elizabeth; I'm not always on duty."

Ara ignored her, turning to look to the right, behind him. Her face lit up and John turned to look at what had caught her attention.

The door to the room had opened and Sherlock was weaving his way gracefully around one waiter who was carrying an ice bucket with a magnum of champagne and another who was carrying a silver tray with twenty champagne flutes on it.

He was wearing a black dinner jacket that had clearly been made for him- the classic lines emphasised his height and his broad shoulders and then tapered in to hug his slim waist and hips. He'd left the dress shirt collar open, down to the second button, and the silk bow tie was undone, the two ends just lying loose down the shirt, as if he couldn't be bothered. His hair, freshly blown dry, was a tousled mess of wayward curls. John glanced down at the young girl and the middle-aged woman, and tried to bite back a smile. They were both transfixed. John looked around the room and noticed that all of the women in the room were watching Sherlock, and some of the men, too. Prince Rashid's eyes were wide with delight.

"Tell me, John. Does he  _know_  he looks like that?" Elizabeth's question was quietly said, but Ara giggled and replied for him, "Nah, not a chance. If he did, then he'd have a swelled head about it. All he cares about is the Work. That's what he told me, when we were commiserating about boring social stuff at lunch."

The three of them watched Sherlock go up to Mycroft, who greeted him with a slightly pained look. Even at this distance, where John couldn't hear what was being said, the elder brother was clearly irritated by Sherlock's state of undress. Lady Caroline lifted her hands as if to help do the bowtie for him, but Sherlock evaded her reach, giving a slightly alarmed look before turning away from the couple.

That's when it hit John. Mycroft and Caroline. They were standing next to each other and there was something about the way they stood, the way they looked together, that made John realise he'd been blind to it before now. They were ideally suited. Both tall, both superbly well-dressed in an understated way. There was a similar acuity in their gaze as they watched Sherlock walk over to where John was standing.

"Evening, Sherlock." Elizabeth's greeting as she stood up was echoed by a shy "Hiya" from Ara. Before he could reply, there was a ting of something hitting a fine crystal glass, and conversation stopped as all eyes focused on Mycroft.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, can I have your attention briefly? I have been asked by His Highness Prince Rashid if he could say a few words."

The elegant dark-eyed young man stepped forward and drew his robes around him, almost theatrically. "Gentle ladies and gentlemen, I wish to thank our host for his most generous hospitality and what has been truly the most wonderful day. Never have I experienced such a thrilling shooting. And, I wish to also congratulate Mister Sherlock Holmes for his splendid right-and-left achievement. I have often heard of such prowess, but not had the opportunity to witness it myself. To celebrate this amazing feat, I wish you all to join me in a glass of 1996 Louis Roederer Cristal." He nodded to the waiter, who popped the cork on the magnum and began to pour. The second waiter began to distribute the glasses.

Sherlock turned to John with a smirk, and the doctor noticed an echoing smile on Elizabeth's face. She raised an eyebrow, as if in invitation. Sherlock said  _sotto voce_ , "As one congratulating and as a thank you for the hospitality, of course the Prince can indulge despite his religious requirements to avoid alcohol. He would have come with it in one of his staff’s luggage, looking for any excuse."

"Wow- that's pretty cynical." Ara snagged a glass off the tray of the waiter as he came to the three adults. John sought her mother's eye across the room and tilted his head at Ara with a question in his eye. Lady Caroline mouthed the word  _half_ , so John said to the teenager, "Just a half glass, Ara."

"Don't be a spoilsport."

"But if you want to …do what you said you wanted to do with your camera, then you will need a clear head."

Sherlock was ignoring the conversation and scanning the room with his usual forensic scrutiny. His long fingers were together beneath his chin, and he seemed lost in thought. The waiter stood patiently with a glass, until Sherlock glanced aside as if affronted by the intrusion. "No" and he looked away again.

The baritone was just loud enough to reach them and no one else in the room. "Mrs Ffoukes, John- I have been able to coax the house security team to pass me the mobile phone number for Jimmy Ashton." Sherlock had his hand in his dinner jacket pocket. "I am about to send a text. I will be watching Sir Martin. Mrs Ffoukes, please observe David Wills. John, you get the Ashtons. "

Ara sat up. "Who should I do?" Her voice was a little loud.

Sherlock skewered her with a gaze. "You can keep quiet, and mind your own business."

She pouted, and then shot back. "Yeah, but there aren't enough of you to go around, so I'll watch the creepy Arab bouncer."

Elizabeth's eyes were full of questions. But Sherlock wasn't watching her. A few seconds later, Jimmy Ashton broke off his conversation with Barbara and Sarah to look at his phone which he'd pulled out of his pocket. He just stopped, his eyes fixed to the screen, and then he nudged Barbara's elbow to get her attention, then showed her the screen.

Startled, the dark-haired American woman looked up straight across the room at Sir Martin Whetle. The look on her face was one of utter rage, and the career diplomat saw it. He paled visibly.

Sherlock breathed a little "gotcha!" and smiled. "John- I need you to stay here and keep an eye on things- particularly on what happens between the Whetles and the Ashtons. Mrs. Ffoukes, you and I need to speak in private." He moved quickly to the door, with the MI6 DG close on his heels.

Ara grabbed John's arm. "Want to know what the bouncer just did? He just looked at his mobile, too. I think the American forwarded whatever Sherlock sent him. And he is looking a little freaked." John took a look at Razi al Farkri, and had to agree.

The conversation in the room seemed to grind to a halt. Mycroft had his back to the others, talking with Lady Caroline, but the lower volume penetrated and he turned to survey the room. Mycroft noted the absence of his brother and Mrs Ffoukes, and his face hardened. He looked as if he was about to follow the pair out, but Lady Caroline put her hand on his forearm and he turned to her. Quiet words were exchanged and Mycroft hesitated. More quiet words from the blonde woman and then John watched as the elder Holmes made the decision to remain with the guests. Then the conversation levels rose and everything seemed on the surface to be back to normal. Sir Martin and Lady Margaret resumed their conversation with the Berrisfords. Jimmy and Barbara continued their banter with Sarah and David. But there was an undercurrent of tension in the room that no amount of fine champagne could disguise.

Ara's eyes were wide as saucers as she came up to John. "Whatever Sherlock did, it sure stirred things up. He's  _brilliant."_ John could only nod his head in agreement, wishing he knew just what it was that Sherlock had texted.


	23. Chapter 23

It was one of the strangest dinners John had ever attended. On the one hand, it was certainly one of the poshest. The long oak table was set with damask tablecloth, fine china, crystal glassware and silverware that positively gleamed in the candle light cast by the silver candelabras running down the middle.

On the other hand, every single one of the people at the table seemed to be on edge. The dinner gong sounded only a few minutes after Sherlock and Elizabeth left the room, and they were already in the dining room as everyone else filed in. One of the Prince's bodyguards came into the room and stood discretely in the corner, the other remained outside, guarding the door. The diners had to find the table cards with their names, and once seated, John got the feeling that very few of the guests were happy with their seating arrangements. Mycroft sat at the head of the table, Lady Caroline on his right, and Sherlock on his left. Ara was next to her mum; John was next to Sherlock. After that, the guests were arranged to ensure that no husband sat next to a wife, no guest sat next to the gun they had accompanied. Barbara seemed happiest- she was next to John, as she had hoped she would be. On Ara's right was the Rafik al Farkri, then Christine Berrisford, followed by Jimmy Ashton. On Barbara's left, Prince Rashid sat, rather forlornly between her and Lady Margaret. His eyes sought his companion Rafik across the table, but a flower arrangement and the candelabra were in the way. On the left of the diplomat's wife was David Wills, across the table from Sarah Barnard. Opposite one another were Sir Martin and Tom Berrisford. Elizabeth Ffoukes sat between the career diplomat and the Brigadier, at the bottom of the table from where she could keep an eye on everyone.

The undercurrent that he'd felt in the Drawing Room was still there, just masked by the process of dining. Wine glasses were filled; the two Arabs were offered the alternative of sparkling water; both took the wine. Waiters appeared discretely, carrying silver platters- the first course was a choice between poached salmon, scallops, or a vegetarian dish of stuffed mushrooms.

Sherlock waved the platter on, but Mycroft intervened and told the waiter to give him a few scallops. When Sherlock glared, Mycroft glared back. The waiter obeyed the master of the house and deposited three plump scallops onto Sherlock's plate. John decided distraction was needed, so once he selected a little bit of everything and the waiter had passed on, he nudged Sherlock and said  _very_  quietly- "text?"

"One I prepared earlier; just had to send it." This was whispered into John's ear, as under the edge of the table Sherlock pulled out his phone and then turned the screen so John could read it. The number sending the text had been blocked.

**7.48pm Consultant says- turncoat, working for the Bulgarians!**

John looked up again, tried not to smirk and busied himself with his food, while Sherlock returned the phone to his pocket. As he ate, the doctor thought it through. Talk about pulling a pin on a grenade… Ashton had gone out of the house to phone someone asking for advice, and Sherlock was answering it as if he were the same person replying. He hadn't named anyone specific, in the hope that the conspirators' behaviour would reveal the guilty party. Clearly Barbara Ashton thought the traitor was Sir Martin. And the former FCO man's reaction to her look of accusation was as good as a blatant confession. It was a classic sting operation, and Sherlock had executed it flawlessly. Sir Martin must have been working first with the Romanian cartel, but switched sides to give away its secrets to the Bulgarians who were trying to muscle in. And now the rest of his former 'colleagues' knew it.

"You two- you're like naughty school boys passing notes in class." Barbara had leaned over to purr this into his ear. John tried to still his instant reaction, then realised he wouldn't be able to pull it off. So, he laughed and said "Guilty as charged". He smiled at the American and put his most charming face on. "But, then I'm not the only one who suffers from nomophobia."

She looked puzzled. "What's nomophobia?"

" _No mobile phone_  phobia; I tend to live on the phone, so can't resist checking the football scores. If you noticed, this uniform jacket doesn't come with pockets, so I got Sherlock to check for me."

She giggled. "Oh- it's one of those British-American things- we're divided by a common language. You call it 'mobile'; we call it 'cell', so it would be ' _no cell phone_ phobia' in the US. Well, I can sympathise. Notice anywhere to put a phone in my outfit?" She smirked, knowing that it was an invitation for him to stare at her figure hugging dress.

He made a show of looking over her carefully, which made her flush with pleasure. "Nope- no room anywhere." He took a bite of the scallop, and realised it was…perfectly cooked: tender, slightly caramelised on the outside by being flash seared in an extremely hot pan, but taken away from the heat before it could become tough or rubbery. It melted in his mouth. He gave a sigh of approval.

"Was that about me, or the scallops?" she teased. "They are yummy, aren't they?" Barbara popped a small one into her mouth and chewed seductively. John decided to keep her talking, so turned the conversation to the differences in vocabulary and usage between English and the American version of it. She laughed- "You could say I'm bi-lingual. I can talk about hitting something for six using a cricket analogy when I'm in London, or describe it as a home run hit deep into left field. Lived on both sides of the Atlantic, so I can get by in either."

Out of the corner of his eye, John also kept an eye on Sherlock, who was watching everyone else at the table. The doctor wondered if Sherlock's sensitive hearing could make out the conversations at the far end of the table, where Elizabeth seemed to be trying to engage Sir Martin Whetle in conversation. It looked like hard work, as the former diplomat seemed to be answering rather monosyllabically, his face set rather grimly. Lady Margaret had abandoned hope with the Prince, who seemed unwilling to engage in any small talk with a woman and she turned instead to converse with David Wills. Sarah was trying to be charming to Jimmy Ashton, smiling and animated in her gestures. John wondered what it would be like to have to do this sort of work 'for Queen and Country' to chat up men in order to get information out of them. He didn't think he could ever have been a spy; too honest a face to keep it under control, and too reluctant to act a part. Sherlock had been careful not to ask John to lie; he could ask questions, and he could distract people, but lying was hard for him.

Unlike Sherlock. Over the nine months, John had learned Sherlock was a superb actor, able to lie convincingly without compunction whenever it suited his purposes when working a case. The politeness he had been willing to show on the gun line was now a thing of the past, however. John could sense him fidgeting beside him. He was slowly eating the scallops on his plate, as if it were a real chore. Lady Caroline and Mycroft were trying to engage him in conversation about the shooting, but he was resisting their efforts, keeping his eyes on Rafik, Ashton and Sir Martin. At one point, John looked across the table to see Ara watching Sherlock with a smirk. Then, when she saw John was looking at her, she turned to Rafik al Farkri and started a conversation, which startled the Arab slightly, but he did respond. John couldn't quite hear the words, but given a choice between the teenager and the Brigadier's wife, the man clearly decided he would talk to the younger woman after all.

The mood of the diners did not lift when the first course was cleared and the second arrived. Again, the waiter's platter offered a choice- pheasant, partridge or venison. Under his brother's scrutiny, Sherlock took a tiny portion of venison and then left it untouched on the plate. After his exertions as a loader, John was hungry so tried a little of everything again, and was richly rewarded. He began to appreciate yet again the cook's talents. She managed to turn something as humble as a roast potato into a work of culinary delight and the whole meal was worthy of a Michelin star.

They were offered cheese after the main course, and John was cutting himself a sliver of stilton to go with the remains of his glass of red wine when Christine Berrisford pushed herself back from the table and stood up. She mumbled something to Jimmy Ashton and then fled the room. As she left, John could see that she was trying hard to control tears. Her husband, across and down the table from where she was sitting looked startled. John could see Mrs Ffoukes say something that kept the Brigadier in his chair, rather than follow his wife out to see what the matter was.

Elizabeth exchanged looks over the table with Sherlock. John then glanced at Mycroft, who was giving the MI6 DG a glare down the table that could cut through armour plating. Lady Caroline put her hand on Mycroft's just as he was about to toss his napkin on the table. The doctor then heard the elder Holmes hiss a "stop this _immediately"_ at Sherlock.

No one seemed to have much appetite after that, and in less than ten minutes, Mycroft gave up the effort. He stood, and announced that coffee and after dinner drinks would be served in the Saloon in five minutes. The other members of the party rose from the chairs, and started to leave the room.

Out in the hall, too many things were happening at once. The Prince was talking to his bodyguard, as Rafik disappeared up the hallway in a swirl of robes. John watched as Sir Martin exchanged words quietly with his wife, and then he turned up the corridor, too, saying he needed to go to the loo. His face was pale and he looked distressed.

Barbara was drawing attention to herself with a laugh and a hand on her brother's shoulder, as the pair bracketed David Wills, leaving Sarah to follow behind.

Lady Margaret came up to Mycroft to give her apologies for the rest of the evening, as she was going to see what the matter was with Christine Berrisford. Lady Caroline expressed her concerns and asked if there was anything the Brigadier's wife needed, Lady Margaret must ask. Then she and Mycroft led the rest of the guests away towards the Saloon at the other end of the corridor.

Ara pounced on John and pulled him over to Sherlock. The consulting detective was starting to move down the hallway away from where most of the rest of the party were headed, but Ara grabbed his arm.

"Wait."

The tall man looked down at the teenager, his brow wrinkled. "Not now, I have important things to do. Go away."

The blonde teenager stood her ground, undeterred by the consulting detective's rude tone. "Not yet. There's something you need to know, and I will tell you if you agree to do something for me."

Sherlock looked annoyed at Ara's hand on him and started to pull away from her.

She carried on, in a stage whisper, "It's about Rafik and you  _really_  want to know this."

That made Sherlock stop long enough to face her. "What have you seen?" He used his height to his advantage, looming over the teenager, but she wasn't intimidated.

"Promise me you'll let me take your photo later, when this is over."

"For God's sake,  _TELL ME_! A man's life depends on it!"

"Uh, I'll take that as a 'yes'. Rafik- when he got up from the table, he went over to the Prince's bodyguard and took his dagger from him."

The effect on Sherlock was electric. "John, tell that to Elizabeth  _now."_ He turned and broke into a run down the corridor. As he passed one of the waiters emerging from the dining room with dishes, he said in a sharp baritone that John could hear, "Code Red."


	24. Chapter 24

John pulled his sterile gloves tighter and picked up the pre-threaded needle. He'd cleaned the wound with betadine from the kit and injected a local anaesthetic. As he made his first stitch, he thought this might be the most unusual occasion for him to be practicing his suturing skills- in the middle of a full-blooded row between the two Holmes brothers, neither of whom was paying a blind bit of attention to the surgery going on to Sherlock's right thigh.

"How could you be so stupid?" Mycroft was pacing up and down, behind the two leather wing-backed chairs in front of the fireplace in his private rooms. Sherlock was in one, stripped of his trousers, his wounded leg raised on one of the dining table chairs that had been commandeered by John. Blood ran down the side of the leg to be soaked up by a white fluffy towel.

The occupant of the other chair decided to speak up on behalf of Sherlock. "He was only doing the sensible thing. If he'd waited for your team to get in there, Sir Martin would be dead. Instead, we have the first solid breakthrough in this case for over three years. Don't beat him up about this, Mycroft." Elizabeth surveyed the elder Holmes' pacing with some concern.

Mycroft stopped by Sherlock's chair, looking down with a scowl that could have cut another gash to match the one in his brother's thigh. "Explain it, then, if you think you are so clever."

From the footstool, John glanced up at his flatmate's face, as Sherlock stared resolutely at the logs burning in the grate. he had retreated from the fraternal shouting match into stoical silence. The swelling around his right eye was starting to turn reddish blue; he was going to have a classic shiner. John sighed. "Sherlock, if you don't want to tell him, then tell me. I'm still trying to figure out what happened."

Sherlock focused on John. "You know most of it already. The Bulgarian crime syndicate is trying to muscle in on the Romanians, who have locked up the arms-for-drugs connection with the Mexican cartels. What happened in Kentish Town was the side-show to the side-show, but still gave me the clues to track down the larger conflict."

Elizabeth nodded. "You had run out of data, so I thought I would supply you with some likely suspects- people we had on our radar as being somehow connected to the Romanians, but we had no proof, and no legal way into interrogate them."

Mycroft snapped, "So you hijacked my shooting weekend with malice of forethought. Elizabeth, you  _said_  that you just wanted Sherlock's opinion on them, not a…full scale operation. If I had known what you planned, I would never have given my permission."

"Shut up, Mycroft, and get off your high horse for a minute." Sherlock flinched slightly as John pulled the suture tight. John asked quietly, "Do you want another local?" but Sherlock shook his head.

The elder Holmes in his dinner jacket resumed pacing. "I hope it hurts; you deserve it." He was still livid.

As he made the next stitch, John said, "Keep explaining, Sherlock. I'm only half way there to understanding what just happened."

There was a breath drawn in, then the consulting detective was off in full deductive flow. "Right- start at the beginning. Bucharest-based Cigur manufactures weapons for NATO use- commissioned originally by the Brigadier General Berrisford, before he retired. He adjusted quantities to ensure a small percentage of certain orders could be siphoned off without attracting attention. David Wills supplied the fake EU documentation and export licenses that allowed a percentage of those to 'vanish' into containers that got diverted to London's Tilbury docks. There the Romanian traffickers operating in Kentish Town broke them up into smaller consignments and shipped them to the USA where they were altered to suit the needs of their Mexican end users. Jimmy and Barbara Ashton were the American connection; they managed the last stages of delivery, and Barbara was the one who organised the drug shipments from Mexico to the UK. Once in the UK, the drugs were sold and the money transferred to the London office of the Dubai International Bank, whose chairman happens to be Prince Rashid's father. The father is being blackmailed to launder the money. If the bank didn't comply, then his son's homosexuality would be revealed, and the father's side of the royal line would be disgraced. It's a crime in the UAE, and he'd be disowned, disinherited and probably exiled for having a 'defective' son." He drew a rather shaky breath.

Elizabeth looked a little stunned at the speed of Sherlock's delivery. "I think I follow you through all that- but how on earth did you get there from an investigation into the prostitutes' deaths?"

"We started from the bottom up, whereas you worked from the top down. Our investigations meet in the middle in the form of the shop fronts for North London's sex trade- they hide behind a façade of sunbed studios. A UK-based, Romanian-owned company manufactures the sunbeds. The Ashtons manage this business's exports to the USA- and I predict you will find a lot of gun components getting a tan on their way across the Atlantic. I didn't know of the Ashtons or their role until last night. I will copy my laptop files for you, Mrs Ffoukes; the evidence is what you need to get MI5 and the police to take it seriously enough to close down the Uk side of the business."

John finished the four inch long line of sutures; then used a pair of scissors from a sterile package to tidy up the ends. "Elizabeth, can I ask you to play nurse, please? Hand me the dressing and the gauze, please." He put the needle back into the kit's sharps disposal unit, where he'd put the syringe earlier. As he worked to tape the bandage down and then used gauze to hold it in position, he asked Sherlock the question that had been bugging him ever since dinner. "But, who's al-Farkri then? Why would he want to kill Sir Martin? You said he was an Iranian Revolutionary Guard. What do they have to do with this?"

"Nothing. Oh, yes, he was ordered by them to spy. In fact, he was probably a 'sleeper'- an Arab who was recruited by the Iranians. Dubai is a notorious access point for smuggling between the West and Iran, trying to get around sanctions. But once he wormed his way into the entourage, he realised that he could make himself  _very_  rich by seducing the rather naïve prince. And that gave him just the ticket for getting out of Iran's clutches forever. Trouble was, the Ashtons must have figured it out, and blackmailed him into doing the same to the prince's father- to create the safe haven for the funds moving about."

John started to wrap gauze around Sherlock's thigh. "So, when we heard them arguing in the woods, Ashton was trying to bully al-Farkri into…what, killing Sir Martin?"

"Not at that stage. They might have had words about it when they had their exchange over tea in Farsi, but I wasn't there so I don't know. Until then, Ashton knew someone was betraying the Romanians' secrets, but he thought it was David Wills, something that Sarah Barnard was trying to investigate under your direction, Mrs Ffoukes."

Mycroft stopped his pacing. "What on earth brought a career diplomat like Sir Martin Whetle into this circle of criminals?"

"You overestimate the attraction of a life in official service, Mycroft. Before he was 'our man in Canada', he was ambassador in Sofia, Bulgaria. As retirement loomed on the horizon after Canada, he must have decided to supplement his pension with a few investments of his own. Once you question him, you will find that he was probably primed by the Bulgarians to infiltrate the Romanians' set-up, and they fell for it. But, I suspect, by the end, he was playing both sides against each other. Double agents afflict criminal networks as well as intelligence services."

John tied off the ends of the gauze now wrapped around Sherlock's thigh, and started to clean up the debris- the blood-soaked pressure pads used to staunch the bleeding long enough for him to start the suturing. Sherlock began to move his leg off the towel, but John tutted. "Not yet, keep it elevated to let it clot." He rocked back on the footstool. "But how did Barbara figure it out? When you sent that text, she knew it was him."

Sherlock sniffed. "Women love to gossip and brag about their kids. Christine Berrisford must have told her about her son getting a job in Bucharest, due to Sir Martin's intervention. That job takes him to and from Sofia in Bulgaria about once a month. I think you will find that he has been playing the 'go-between', passing information about the Romanians between Sir Martin and his Bulgarian 'friends' once he'd left the region for Canada. Barbara told Jimmy and he told her at the dinner table what her son's been doing, and that it would get him killed- so she bolted in tears. Not very helpful, because it only confirmed who the Ashtons needed to target."

From behind Sherlock's chair, Mycroft put his hands on both wings, gripping the leather in white-knuckled anger. "And you thought you would just 'test' this little theory of yours by sending a text designed to force them into taking action- irrespective of the threat that this posed to… _everyone_."

Ffoukes sighed. "Believe me, Mycroft, I had no idea things would take…that particular direction. It was supposed to be a simple exercise of intelligence gathering."

Sherlock snorted. "Spare me the sanctimony, Mrs Ffoukes. All the intelligence in the world would not have yielded the results I produced tonight. You now have Sir Martin gratefully accepting your protective custody for him and his wife. If you offer his son immunity from prosecution, then you will get every bit of evidence out of the father about what the Romanians have been doing. Treat him reasonably and you'll get enough on the Bulgarians, too. Just think of the brownie points that will earn you with the American services, when you turn over the Ashtons. None of that would have happened if I'd had left it to either of you."

She raised her hands in mock surrender. "I'm sorry, Mycroft. You were right. I didn't realise that he is just as smart as you are, but twice as single-minded and just crazy enough to try to pull a stunt like this."

Mycroft was not mollified. "Ignorance is no excuse."

She shrugged. "Well, let's look on the bright side. For years we've been trying to get one of the key people to break cover. All we had was circumstantial evidence. Now, we can get the confessions, and possibly turn one or two of them to play on our side for a while. It will be handy to know who the Romanian and Bulgarian nationals are behind the scenes pulling the strings. All's well that ends well."

John sat on the stool between Sherlock's chair and the fire, warming his back. "On the other hand, you could have been killed, Sherlock."

The consulting detective made a face. "Unlikely, John. The vast majority of knife wounds are not fatal, but Rafik was under instructions to kill Sir Martin, and would have succeeded if I had waited for backup."

John replayed the previous hour's events and realised Sherlock was probably right. When the doctor had watched Sherlock run down the corridor from the dining room, he'd made a snap decision. He told Ara to find Elizabeth and tell her exactly what she'd told them. When the teenager agreed and ran off toward the Saloon, the doctor charged after Sherlock. He managed to see him vanish around the corner, and followed, only to see the detective smash his way in through a door, and then sounds of a scuffle.

When he reached the door, he realised it was into a loo, and that there were three men fighting in a very small room. Sherlock had grabbed Rafik's right hand, the one holding the dagger. Sir Martin was trying desperately to avoid the downward plunge of the aide's hand, while Sherlock's grab altered the downward trajectory enough to miss the diplomat's heart, and the blade went into the top of the diplomat's arm. He cried out in pain and lost his balance, slipping down between the basin and the toilet. As the dagger came free of the wound, his fall gave Sherlock enough room to manoeuver so he could shove an elbow into the assailant's ribs with enough force to throw him back against the wall. Rafik responded with an elbow to Sherlock's face, while Sir Martin scrabbled crabwise on the floor toward the door. John grabbed him by the collar of his DJ and heaved him out of the room. The elderly man was in shock but the wound didn't look fatal. As John returned to the fray, he heard the sound of running feet as reinforcements came pounding down the long corridor.

Rafik now turned his wrath on the consulting detective, slashing the knife. Sherlock tried to use the man's downward follow-through, twisting out of the way, leaving the dagger-wielding hand to carry on down to smash on the ceramic basin- but the weapon stayed in the man's hand. With a snarl, al-Farkri knew he was fighting for his life, and found new reserves of strength. John came into the fray and kicked his knee from the side, dislocating it and making the Arab go down onto the other knee, dragging Sherlock down with him. Then John struck with two hard blows to the attacker's face. The second of these smashed the back of Rafik's head against the sink, and he collapsed in a heap, unconscious. Then hands were on John, pulling him outside, as the security team took over.

Sherlock wriggled out from under the unconscious robed man, and was on his feet and out the door of the bathroom. He was breathing heavily, but it didn't stop him from kneeling down in front of the diplomat who was clearly terrified. "Sir Martin- the game's up. Best go with these men, who will see to your injury and protect you from the Romanians." A pair of suited security guards lifted the elderly man to his feet, just as Elizabeth and Mycroft came around the corner. "Get his wife into protection; hurry."

"What the  _hell_  is going on, Sherlock?" Mycroft looked livid.

Sherlock started to stand up and then his right leg gave way under him and he sank back down again.

John was beside him in an instant, and looking into those grey green eyes, shocked wide with pain. "Where?"

Sherlock grimaced, and looked down at his right leg as if it were a traitor. "Thigh."

John's hands found the slash in the dinner suit's trousers, and he ripped it wider so he could see the rate of blood flow. If it was a femoral artery, Sherlock had only minutes before he would bleed out. He let out a breath when he realised that it wasn't a major artery.

"Mycroft, have you got a clean handkerchief in your top pocket? I could do with one, please."

A hand came over his shoulder with the crisply ironed white cotton square. Then the terse voice: "This is  _insane_. In  _this_  house…" John watched as Elizabeth looked down the corridor, following with her eyes the security men who were carrying Rafik and helping Sir Martin. She turned briefly and was all business with Mycroft. "I will look after the prisoner and his target; you sort out the other guests- most of whom are going into custody tonight."

His lips were thin with disapproval, as Mycroft stared down at his brother sitting on the floor, who was doing his level best to avoid eye contact. "Will he need a hospital, Doctor Watson?"

"No!" Sherlock was adamant. John wasn't sure, but then Sherlock continued, "John can put in the sutures faster by doing it here. And then we can clear up things quickly." In the end, the doctor had let himself be persuaded of the logic.

And an hour later, he knew Sherlock was right. By the time they could have driven to the nearest hospital's A&E department, waited to be seen and then had the wound sutured, it would have taken far longer. And he knew, looking down at the bandaged leg, that his handiwork was better than most young doctors staffing an Emergency Department late on a Saturday night. Luckily, the security team had a field kit- "Accidents happen, and we never know how much time we might have before an ambulance or helicopter could get here, sir."

John got up and went to the side table, poured out a tall glass of water and brought it back to Sherlock. "Drink it now. You need to replace fluids and rest the leg. I'd rather you didn't go up three flights of stairs on that wound tonight. Is there a place on this floor when he can sleep?"

Mycroft sighed. "Through my study next door, there is a door into my bedroom. He can hobble in there. Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do, trying to avoid a diplomatic incident with the royal family of Dubai, not to mention reassuring my  _legitimate_  guest and her daughter that their lives have not been endangered by your recklessness, Sherlock. Good night, Doctor."

As soon as the door closed behind Mycroft, Elazabeth rose from the wing backed chair. "I also have to get back to work. We'll be moving the Ashtons, the Brigadier and David Wills into secure custody in London tonight. The helicopter is taking Sir Martin and his wife to a medical facility run by the security services. The team on board will also drop off al-Farkri on the way."

She stopped at the door. "So, gentlemen, I will say goodnight for now. Thank you, Sherlock. Just…next time,  _ask_  before you do something crazy like that again. While this has been an extraordinarily successful evening, I think your brother will be taking it out on me for some time to come."


	25. Chapter 25

Ara sighed. "Well, we will just have to make do with you in profile." She stepped away from the leather wing-backed chair in front of the log fire. The chair had been moved so it was now facing into the room- where her camera was on a professional tripod.

John smirked. "I don't know; I think the black eye gives him character. Certainly would make the photo more…interesting."

She glared at him. "I'm sure that  _Country Life_  won't use it unless it looks  _good_. I'm taking enough liberties with the clothing. The more traditional approach would be to get you back into your shooting gear."

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm not changing clothes- and, if you recall, the breeks and jacket I wore today were not exactly high fashion."

Sherlock was still dressed in his dinner jacket, and he'd been told to put his trousers back on by John, so he complied.

"I've seen a man's legs before, Doctor Watson." Ara smirked.

Sherlock's unbuttoned white shirt was now even more rumpled, and the silk bow tie ends had creases in them, too. His flatmate looked decidedly worse for wear after the fight, but in a louche, 'come-hither' sort of way. John was also certain that Sherlock had absolutely no idea what affect that image would have on the female readers of the publication.

Ara sniffed. "I don't want you to change clothes- you looked scruffier than most of the beaters, which is why I want you to stay exactly as you are in that monkey suit. In profile, the photo won't show the black eye, and if you cross the left leg over your right knee, no one can see the tear in the trousers, either. It will have to do."

There was a soft whine from a chocolate Labrador. Bella was sitting next to the chair, and the Purdey was leaning up against the side of the arm. Ara came around the camera, this time carrying the brace of woodcock, tied together around their necks with a length of pink baling twine.

"Stick your index finger out." When Sherlock raised an eyebrow, she sighed, grabbed his left hand and pulled the finger into position. "Like so." She hung the twine over the finger and the two birds dangled, their long beaks dark against the buff coloured feathers on their breasts. "Don't move." She whirled back to the camera, to see what it looked like. "Bella, sit still." Remarkably, the dog did what she was told, looking up at the birds hanging from his finger.

John was behind the camera, trying to smother his smile. The last ten minutes had been an education, watching an irresistible force meet an immovable object. Within moments of Elizabeth leaving the two of them, Ara had arrived carrying her camera, with Bella on a lead, the brace of birds in hand and the shotgun over her shoulder. Bemused, Sherlock asked what she was doing.

"Collecting on your promise. I told you what I knew about Rafik; I told Elizabeth and Mycroft what you asked me to say, John, so I am here to get my photos. With that leg, Sherlock, you can't run away. Don't even try to argue. Wallace tried that when I got him to give me your gun. It's unloaded, by the way, and will stay with you tonight until he can put it away in the gunroom tomorrow morning." Within seconds, she'd set up the camera, and taken charge, getting John to move furniture and was positioning the dog, the gun and the birds.

"Isn't it past your bedtime, Lady Arabella?" Sherlock was not going to surrender easily.

"I'm no Lady, and the name is Ara. If you don't call me that, I'll start calling you Sherly- or worse." John didn't manage to stifle the giggle that slipped out as he watched Sherlock's look of horror.

She went back to the camera. "Look at those stupid knights of your brother's; that gives me a profile to hide the black eye." She was checking what the screen on the back of the camera was showing. "John, go turn off the lamp on the side table; it's throwing a bad shadow." Then, as if remembering something, Ara stood upright again and looked a bit concerned. "The mag is going to want me to use a flash. Is that going to cause you sensory problems?"

"Would it matter if I said yes?" Sherlock was now so bemused by being railroaded by the teenager that he was starting to acquiesce.

"Of course it would. I'd just take one or two. Or I might get John to take the lamp he just switched off and then just stand in the right place once he's taken the shade off."

John stifled a giggle. "Never been a photographer's assistant before."

Sherlock just closed his eyes for a moment. "I can cope. Whatever gets this done quickly."

She nodded and then took a whole series of shots, the camera flashing as she went. "Don't grumble; we both know why you've agreed to do this." There was a tease in her tone. "You'd better tell John, because he was the one who was so  _sure_  that you'd never agree."

Sherlock put the brace down and patted Bella on the head. "Because I will give anything to see the look on Mycroft's face when I send him the magazine with this photo of me, wearing  _these_  clothes, in front of  _his_  fire, sitting in  _his_  chair, with a chocolate Labrador in  _his_  rooms, against _all_ of his orders. It just might make him _incandescent._ "

Ara laughed. "You have that effect on him. He's so cross now with you that he's having a domestic with my mum."

That made Sherlock sit up in the chair, turning to look wide-eyed at the teenager. "Oh! Do tell."

"Not unless you let me take more photos. We can ditch the dog and the gun now. And the birds are…kinda creepy. I'm done with props. Just your face- with and without the shiner. You're all angles… And I won't need the flash." She came over to the chair, took the birds and the gun away from Sherlock, and said sternly to Bella. "Heel!" The dog didn't dare disobey as she followed Ara to the dining table where the 'props' were dropped. "Lie down and stay." She patted the lab's head, rubbing her ear. "He's mine for the next ten minutes. You get to sleep with him…on Mycroft's bed. Leave some fleas. Now  _that's_  sweet revenge, Bella."

John burst out laughing. Then Ara was back, slouching down in the other leather chair, camera up to her face, zooming in on Sherlock's cheekbones and those lips. From behind the camera, she said, "Fire away. Go on; ask me those questions that you're dying to ask about my mum."

"Whose idea was it in the first place?"

John could hear the smirk in her voice. "My Godmother's, AKA Her Royal Highness, Princess Anne. She sat them next to each other at a state banquet. Matchmaking- but apparently they got on, which is surprising….stop looking at me; look at Bella for a while." The camera kept going, the shutter clicking almost continuously.

A wrinkle appeared between Sherlock's brows. "How could  _anyone_  'like' my brother, let alone agree to marry him?"

She giggled and kept taking pictures. "He's not so bad. God, compared with the dorks who've been sniffing around her for the past four years, he's positively Einstein."

"I never said he's stupid…just unbearable."

"I could say the same about my mum. She told me that the last time she was stupid was when she was eighteen and got married to my father, and then had me 'nine months and ten minutes later', as she put it. But as a result of that, she can't stand most of the men she meets. So, I suppose Mycroft stuck out."

"Stuck up, more likely." This was sort of growled by Sherlock, and Bella looked up at the tone of voice.

Ara wasn't fazed by his comment. "He's the Viscount; it comes pre-loaded in the genes. What's your next question?"

"Why?" Sherlock looked genuinely confused by the idea of his brother marrying anyone.

"Why what? Why would he marry her? Well, she's hot. Not that  _you'd_  notice. But your brother's more knowledgeable about such things. And he needs a wife."

"Why?"

"You're starting to repeat your questions. Is that a good sign or are you in shock? You've got John to look after you. Mycroft needs someone to look after him."

John intervened. "I share a flat with Sherlock and occasionally help out with the casework. That's not 'looking after' him."

She snorted and turned her camera toward John taking a whole load of shots of him, too. "I'm not suggesting anything else. Is there something else?"

Sherlock rescued him. "Shut up, Ara, and get back to the subject we are discussing. Mycroft is the most capable person I know of looking after himself. He thinks so highly of his skills in that department that he happily rents out his services to Queen and Country, looking after them, too. He even threatens to look after me when I don't want him to."

"Still, even he needs company."

"So, that's what this weekend was all about? Mycroft introducing you two to me?"

"Yeah- but actually the other way around."

Sherlock's face betrayed his confusion.

"Introducing  _you_ to _us_. He's already told my mum  _everything_  about you- warts and all. I got the PG rated version; just dying to know the other stuff, too. He wanted her to know that he comes as a package deal; marry him, and she has to put up with you, too. Maybe he's looking for someone to share the burden with." John could hear the tease in her voice.

"Has he actually asked her yet?" The consulting detective looked at her closely.

"Stop looking at me. Look at John instead." As he turned his head to look at his flatmate, she caught on camera the faintest of softening in the lines of his face and his mouth, the tiny widening of his pupils, the wrinkles at the side of his eyes that showed he liked what he was seeing when he looked at John.  _"_ That's better; you're more relaxed when you look at John." That made John look up at Sherlock in surprise. Ara carried on, "To answer your question-  _she_  asked him. Well, sort of. I just hope to God that they get on with it, because I really want a little brother to rescue me from all that Pembroke crap." Ara got up out of the chair, to change the angle so she was more above Sherlock, getting more of the hair to frame his face.

"You'll still get the title."

"Yeah, but also a brother who will be more interested in doing the bits that come with it. Yippee. Can't wait for those two to get on with it- but unfortunately, that's what I think they are arguing about now."

"Why?"

"You  _keep_  repeating that...you do realise that? Because mum thinks you're a bad influence. She was kind of expecting guns on a shooting weekend, but knives and assassination attempts in the loo were a little out of her comfort zone."

He snorted. "Her own father was in the service; she's hardly naïve about what's involved."

"That's part of the attraction, I think. She gets what Mycroft does. And he would trust her to understand when he has other things on his mind. The trouble is me."

John smothered a smile. "At least you admit that you are troublesome."

"No- it's that she thinks Mycroft and I will clash- teenage angst and all that." She rolled her eyes. "And she worries that Sherlock's attitude towards authority is _j_ ust so not what I need to be seeing as a role model." She went on. "So, she's likely to be telling him to wait for a until I get through Uni. She says she has lots of childbearing years before her. Yuk; I'm never getting married. Can I ask you a question, now, Sherlock?"

"Hmmm?"

She took that as a yes.

"Will you let John publish some of these photos on his blog? I read it last night, and he really needs to make it much more visually interesting. Got to bring it up to date with links to tumblr, twitter, instagram and vine. I could be your crime scene photographer."

John watched as Sherlock smirked. "I will leave John to decide what he wants to do with these photos, but when it comes to a crime scene…maybe, in a couple of years; that  _would_  drive both of them right around the bend, wouldn't it?"


	26. Chapter 26

John was sitting down to breakfast on his own in the dining room. Mrs Walters apologised for the solitude. "The Pembrokes left this morning very early, after a quick breakfast with his lordship. And the rest of the guests, well, I understand that they left rather late last night. I've taken a tray to Sherlock, which I hope he will eat. Wallace is in there now, collecting… some things, including a dog which should never have been in there, a gun that should have been locked up, and a brace of woodcock that I will be preparing for Sherlock to take back. Do get him to tell you how to cook them- he knows, and if it's presented to him on a plate, he will eat it. Have the other one yourself- woodcock are the king of game birds when it comes to taste. I've got just enough time to get them oven ready for you. I understand that you are both catching the 11.20 train up to London."

"Thank you, Mrs Walters." He tucked into the breakfast with enthusiasm- a kedgeree made with Arbroath Smokie fish, and totally scrumptious. Between bites, as she placed a toast rack with brown slices on the table, the doctor decided to ask her something that had been bothering him.

"Bella- the dog. What happens to the Estate's gundogs when they are too old to work?"

She offered him another glass of fresh squeezed orange juice. "Well, usually, they are offered to one of the local farms or someone in Cootham or Rackham who is looking for an elderly companion. But Sherlock has other ideas about Bella. He's asked Frank to donate her to a local charity, run out of Worthing. It's called Pet Therapy, and takes the dogs into the old people's homes, hospitals and children's care homes for, well, I guess a bit of mutual affection. She's a lovely old girl, and he says she will take to her second career. Better that than pining away every time she hears a shotgun go off on the estate."

As she poured him a second cup of tea, he swallowed a bite of the toast and decided to see if she could solve one last mystery. "Can you answer a question for me? Nik Green and Frank Wallace were discussing something yesterday on the last drive that I didn't understand. I told Wallace that I had only twenty eight empty cartridges from the last drive, yet Green was crowing to the others that he'd won his bet, and Sherlock had set a new record. How was that possible?"

The woman pursed her lips. "I'm not supposed to be encouraging the staff to make such wagers, but…Sherlock's previous record was 83 birds off 90 cartridges. According to Frank this morning, Sherlock was short two birds at the end of the last drive. But, the Parham Shoot rules are that a woodcock counts the same as two pheasants, because they are twice as hard to shoot. So, he reached the equivalent of 84 birds off of 87 cartridges."

"Maybe next time, with a better loader, he will improve that record."

She looked a bit sad at that. "When I delivered his breakfast this morning, he was saying to Wallace that he would never shoot again."

John was shocked. "But,  _why?_  He seemed to enjoy it so much yesterday."

She gave a tiny shrug of her shoulders. "I gave up years ago trying to understand how his mind works. You'll have to ask him yourself."

oOo

An hour later, Sherlock and John were in the Yellow Room. The doctor was reading the morning papers. He had decided not to raise the issue of the shooting. He'd ask Sherlock that on the train. He was still trying to fit all of the pieces of the case together.

"Lots of loose ends tidied up, Sherlock. Just one that confuses me. Who is 'the consultant'? And why would Barbara take his word as true? If she hadn't done so, and Sir Martin not been attacked, then they'd all be walking out of here. Who is this guy?"

Sherlock was lying on the sofa, with his hands steepled under his chin. He'd been uncommunicative, barely acknowledging John's cheery "Good Morning."

"That is  _the_  question, John. I'm beginning to think it's what makes this case not quite solved."

"You could have fooled me. Mrs Ffoukes seemed pretty happy with the outcome. I still don't get why Mycroft didn't want you to get involved, though; it was if he wanted you anywhere but here. I don't get that."

Sherlock smirked. "You can ask him yourself. He's coming down the hall now."

John turned to look at the elder Holmes as he came into the room. The three-piece suit was back on show; as was his frown.

He stared down at the reclining figure. "You might need this…" Mycroft was carrying an aluminium crutch "…as you will be too pig-headed to accept a car and driver back to Baker Street, it might be useful to get you on and off the train."

"Where did you find it?" Sherlock did not bother to open his eyes.

"At the back of your wardrobe; when did you damage yourself enough to use it before now?" This was mildly asked, but there was an undercurrent of concern in the tone that John knew Sherlock would pick up.

"Not mine…it was a prop used for a case. I kept it because you never know when a disguise as someone injured might come in handy."

Mycroft left the crutch by the side of the sofa.

"Shoes."

Sherlock did not open his eyes, but smirked. "What, you don't think your other guests put their feet up on the furniture?"

"Maybe, but they aren't you. For all I know, you've been out tramping around in the mud for the past two hours."

"John would not have allowed me to risk rupturing one of his excellent stitches." Sherlock did not move his feet from the sofa.

Mycroft seemed to be uncomfortable, but John could not understand why.  _Maybe I should go and let them have some privacy?_

"No, John, I want you to stay."

 _How does he DO that? It's creepy at times how easily he can predict what I am thinking._  John shifted a little uncomfortably on the sofa opposite Sherlock.

Mycroft continued, "Mrs Walters has prepared the woodcock for you to take back. Amidst all the excitement yesterday I neglected to congratulate you for the shooting. That's a record that will stand, at least until the next time you come down."

"I won't be shooting again."

"What, ever?" Mycroft sounded incredulous.

"I've proved a point. You have never understood how difficult it is for me to avoid the consequences of sensory overload. You just made assumptions six years ago."

"So, the point is …what? The record shows that you shoot better without being under the influence of cocaine." Mycroft's disapproval was evident on his face.

Sherlock blew a raspberry. "I nearly rendered myself incapable of doing the Work needed on the case. If I had not been so disabled by the sensory overload, I would have been able to figure it out more quickly."

"You shouldn't have being  _working_  on the case at all. Elizabeth was quite wrong to have not explained that more clearly. I did not want you involved in the international side. You should have stuck to the back streets of Kentish Town, and let it go when the police closed the case. I owed her a favour for something, and I only agreed to this on the stipulation that she would get you to  _observe_  and give her the benefit of your observations, not …to take direct action that ended in bloodshed. I tried to warn her that you do take unnecessary risks, but she was so sure she could stay one step in front of you."

"Why do you persist in trying to protect me? I don't want it, don't need it and you can just stop. I've been telling you that for years."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Then you and I will have to disagree…as ever."

"The Work is more important. At least on this occasion, it's work that you might have done if you could have been bothered to put the pieces together yourself."

"How do you know I wasn't? International drugs cartels? EU arms scandals? Really, Sherlock, you need to rein in… your amateur enthusiasms and leave it to the professionals."

"You've asked me to work for you in the past, so what's the difference if I actually proved useful to Elizabeth Ffoukes?"

"I asked you to put that mind of yours to good use- in analysis, in research, in the intellectual work. Not on the front line, not where your lack of impulse control and your failure to understand risk could get you and others killed. She had no right to endanger your life, any more than you had the right to endanger others."

"That's absurd;  _I_  chose to accept the risk. It's none of your business what I do. I didn't ask you to interfere."

"And  _that_  summarises the problem perfectly. You don't understand that I have no choice but to care what happens to you, and what your disregard for your own safety can mean to others. You've never understood responsibility."

John got a sense that the bickering was descending into a time-honoured routine, as if neither of the brothers was willing to start on what they really needed to talk about. A silence fell, as if each was daring the other to begin. Sherlock kept his eyes closed; Mycroft's eyebrow was raised in a silent question.

Sherlock gave in first. "Our train leaves in forty five minutes. Better say what you've been avoiding. Your over-inflated idea of duty- is that why you're considering marriage?"

"One of the reasons. I have a responsibility to all this." The elder Holmes gestured to the room around them as he sat down on the sofa next to John. "And to this." He held up his right hand, with the rhodium-plated gold ring around his third finger. "To what was asked of this family in the past, and what will be asked in the future. _You're_  certainly not going to be any help on that score."

Sherlock sniffed. "Sentiment."

"No. Responsibility- something you don't comprehend. "

"Does Lady Caroline realise she is to become a victim of your sense of duty?"

Mycroft just looked at him. "Sherlock, I don't expect you to understand what it means to care about someone else, something else, other than yourself. Just accept that others do. I do. The fact that I persevere with you, despite your best efforts, is testament to that fact. And, if we do actually decide to get married sometime in the future, it will be because she and I share an understanding of our mutual needs. I'm sorry that you can't comprehend putting the needs of others above your own."

Sherlock took his feet off the couch and sat up, then struggled briefly to stand. He picked up the cane from where it rested against the arm of the sofa. "Goodbye, Mycroft." He hobbled out, leaning on the crutch.

John stood up and looked up at Mycroft. "I guess that's a goodbye from me, too. Thanks for the invitation. It was, um…quite a remarkable experience." As he followed Sherlock, John realised that the weekend had revealed a lot about the Holmes brothers- some of it had been very interesting, some baffling, and not all of it good.  _But that just about sums up every family I've ever known._


	27. Chapter 27

"I'm sorry."

There was an explosion of breath on the other end of the line. " _Sorry? SORRY?_ As if you had anything to do with it, you idjit. Don't think for one moment that you are smart enough to have played a part in this glorious fuckup. If you had, then you'd be dead and that's all there is to it."

Moran's hands tightened on the steering wheel of the taxi. He was stuck in a Sunday morning traffic jam, a tail-back of cars snaking eastwards along the elevated portion of the M4, just before it dumped into the Great Western Road. Traffic had been diabolical, both getting out to Heathrow and now on the way back. He adjusted the blue-tooth earpiece so it sat more comfortably. The app that altered the voice on the other end of the phone sounded even weirder than usual. He decided to risk a question, in the hope of stalling. "Where are you? It sounds like you're at the bottom of a barrel."

"I'm on the fifty third floor of One Canada Square. That's the Canary Wharf Tower to lesser mortals like you. The echo is because I'm in the loo; locked the door and hoped to God that the walls are soundproofed enough that the banker out there isn't privy to this conversation."

"I see."

"No, you don't. You have no idea why I am here, Tiger. I'm trying to ensure we actually get paid. Of course, that will be easier if you tell me that you were able to safely deliver our two fugitives. I did require them to swear a cease-fire so they could share the same taxi without trying to kill each other. Surprising what imminent arrest will do to make people agree to a tactical alliance."

Moran's hesitation created a silence.

"Oh, Mother Mary and all the bleeding saints. You're going to tell me that you couldn't even manage to get them away safely."

Moran grimaced, but then calmed himself. "It's not as bad as you think."

"Not as bad as I think? You don't know how bad I think this is, my little sniper. You have no idea how incandescent with rage this whole miserable, gob-smackingly awful  _failure_  makes me. It is not possible for a man like you, of such limited imagination, to comprehend  _what I think!"_ The voice modifier amplified the volume of the shout, but Moran did not flinch. He was a sharpshooter, used to controlling his breathing, even his own heartbeat, if it was necessary to focus on the one perfect moment of a kill shot. But, even he hesitated for a moment before he tried again.

"What I meant is that there is both good news and bad."

"Oh, and you're going to descend into cliché and ask me which one I want to hear first." The voice modifier app did little to disguise the distain in the tone. "Just get on with it, you fecking idjit."

"The Bulgarian got on board his flight. So long as your arrangements hold good in Sofia, he's home and dry."

The snarl came in reply. "Of course,  _my_  arrangements in Bulgaria will work; I  _own_  the bloody country when it comes to my angels. They wouldn't dare make an arrest or I'd have half the bleeding cabinet's heads on a pike." There was a low moan of sheer frustration. "If only I had the same strangle-hold on the right people in the UK. You're going to tell me that the Romanian was intercepted. Where did they get him? At the check-in desk? At security? Or did he actually make it to the gate? On second thought, I don't want to know. It doesn't matter. Wherever they got him, it means that the Romanians won't pay. They'll claim we couldn't even get their man to safety, and use that as an excuse not to pay. I tell you, there is no honour amongst thieves and criminals. The bigger the syndicate, the more they think they can just ignore the bill for my services. And there is no court I can take them to, so I will instruct my little banker friend that he can rob that account number I just gave him. I'll take the whole lot. I just cannot bear it when stupid clients can't put my advice to good use. It does things to  _my_ reputation when they screw up. If the grand scheme has fallen like a house of cards, at least we can it a profitable collapse. If we're lucky, the British intelligence will clean up anyone who might want to quarrel about wanting their money back." He giggled. "Rather good of them to do that for me, don't you think?"

There was a pause as Moriarty took a breath. Moran could hear his boss's mood had started to lift.

"As irritating a setback as this is, Tiger, we can still salvage something. There is a nice little vacuum about to appear in the north London sex trade, not to mention the people-arms- and-drugs trafficking world in London. Nature abhors a vacuum, so I will tell the Russians about it and they can step in to take the space up. I will sell them the rights…and take a commission. "

Moran wondered if his boss always had a contingency plan. He seemed remarkably able to land on his feet.

Moriarty was in full flow. Seb could imagine him pacing in the loo, thinking it through. "I'm going to devote some serious thinking time to what happened. I need to get to the bottom of what the hell went wrong in West Sussex. Did the Romanian blab who the mastermind was to figure out who was doing what in this little catastrophe?"

"The guy said his American made the DG of MI6 on the first day- so she clearly rounded up all the others and got them to the house. Turns out that it's owned by someone with the same last name as the guy who was sticking his nose where it didn't belong in Kentish Town. Equally weird first name- Mycroft, the brother of the guy you tried to warn off with the bodies on Holmes Road."

There was a long drawn out hiss. "So…Sherlock Holmes reappears to mess things up- yet again. He is getting seriously inconvenient. And he's brought his  _brother_ into the game. How very, very interesting…I thought the elder brother was above such things. Apparently not. Now that's an angel who would be worth his considerable weight."

Moran leaned on the cab horn as some jerk in a Porsche tried to cut in front of him. He listened to his boss on the other end of the phone start to giggle. "Oh joy. Maybe this will turn out to be the start of something rather exciting…let's get to work, Seb; I think this is going to be  _fun_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: and off Moriarty goes on the Great Game….I have come full circle here with the first of my stories, Collateral Damage, which follows on from after the pool. I am planning to post the next story in the *Game Theory* series, called "Level Up" over the Christmas holidays. There will also be new episodes of *Got My Eye on You*. My thanks to all of you who reviewed and provided fuel to the fingers on my keyboard. In the New Year, I will start posting stories from *Periodic Tales*.


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